/ 


GIFT  or 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/enchantedgroundeOOsmitrich 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 

AN  EPISODE  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  A 
YOUNG  MAN 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 

AN  EPISODE   IN  THE  LIFE 
OF  A  YOUNG  MAN 

BY 

HARRY  JAMES   SMITH 

A  uthor  of '  'A  midee's  Son  " 


BOSTON    AND   NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

1910 


COPYRIGHT,   191O,  BY  HARRY  JAMES  SMITH 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  August  iqio 


c^ 


^  rf^   ci-j^ 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


318603 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Where  the  rivers  meet  the  sea  stands  the  City. 
The  great  ships  come  to  her  from  the  four  comers  of 
the  earth ;  they  wait,  straining  at  the  leash,  innumer- 
able, along  her  proud  shores.  Over  bridges  that 
hang,  Hke  dream-phantoms,  high  above  the  waters, 
through  tunnels  that  plunge  deep  below  the  waters, 
where  no  living  thing  ever  moved  before,  she  draws 
in  her  countless  hosts  of  toil.  The  sun,  lifting  his  head 
out  of  the  deep,  hangs  shields  of  gold  upon  the  fretted 
windows  of  her  soaring  towers,  and  flings  his  javelins 
of  splendour  against  her  domes  and  pinnacles. 

In  her  teeming  streets  all  nations  of  men  traflfic  with 
one  another.  The  rich  and  the  hungry  poor  are  jostled 
together.  Poverty  and  nakedness  stare  with  wild 
eyes  from  her  noisome  alleys;  wealth  such  as  the 
Orient  never  knew  is  daily  amassed,  daily  dispended, 
in  her  markets.  It  is  a  City  of  Power,  a  City  of  con- 
suming Ambition,  a  Babel  that  would  ravish  heaven 
of  its  secret  and  silence. 

It  is  a  City  of  Youth.  Like  the  fabled  bird  of  Arabia, 
she  renews  herself  in  the  ashes  of  her  past.  Age  is 

3 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 

cast  off  and  forgotten.  Age  has  no  place  in  her  schemes 
of  power.  But  Youth  —  how  ravenously  she  reaches 
forth  to  seize  it,  and  to  draw  it  to  herself.  Youth  it 
is,  everlasting  Youth,  that  feeds  her  dreams,  that  rears 
her  towers  yet  higher,  flings  yet  wider  her  bridges, 
and  piles  up  her  wealth  until  there  is  no  counting 
thereof  for  its  immensity. 

Thither  go  the  young  men,  with  the  hope  and 
dream  of  the  future  in  their  eyes.  They  come  down  to 
her  out  of  the  land  of  hills  and  from  the  broad  plains, 
irresistibly  drawn  by  her  fair  promises ;  and  there  is 
no  going  back.  While  Youth  lasts,  the  City  does  not 
release  them  from  her  spells. 

Her  spells  are  Ambition  and  Opportunity.  It  is 
these  that  make  light  for  Youth  the  burden  of  labour, 
that  cause  sacrifice  and  hardship  to  be  welcomed, 
that  strengthen  him  to  face  disappointment,  neglect, 
and  loneliness.  Pleasure  also  has  her  palace  there, 
and  sings  her  magical  song  in  the  ears  of  Youth.  In 
the  garish,  never-sleeping  streets  of  night  she  walks 
abroad,  attired  with  witcheries,  casting  a  glamour 
upon  his  eyes.  And  in  the  City,  far  from  the  Land  of 
Hills,  here,  where  the  ties  of  the  old  life  are  relaxed 
or  broken,  what  shall  restrain  the  feet  of  Youth  from 
following  after? 

The  City  is  the  place  of  testing.  She  is  lavish  of 
opportunity ;  equally  lavish  of  seduction.  She  preaches 
strength  and  endurance,  and  she  preaches  indul- 

4 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


gence  and  forgetfulness.  In  her  streets  you  may 
hearken  to  all  the  jangled,  conflicting  voices  of  hu- 
man life,  and  you  may  obey  those  you  will.  In  the 
City,  Youth  is  privileged,  nay,  compelled,  as  no- 
where else  to  make  his  own  decisions,  to  choose  his 
own  courses.  Here  it  is  that  he  comes  preeminently 
to  his  own,  stripped  of  all  hampering  traditions,  re- 
leased from  all  surveillance,  hurled  relentlessly  into 
the  very  presence  of  the  true  gods  and  the  false,  — 
to  choose.  It  is  for  him  to  find  himself  here,  or  to 
lose  himself,  as  he  will. 

Only,  to  guide  him,  he  brings  with  him  to  the  City 
of  the  Test,  Hke  the  Pilgrim,  equipped  for  his  long 
journey  of  struggle,  temptation,  and  victory,  a  scroll  in 
his  bosom.  A  seal,  too,  has  been  set  upon  his  brow ; 
and  to  his  ears  has  the  warning  been  confided,  by 
those  wise  shepherds  of  the  mountains,  that  he  should 
not  sleep  upon  the  Enchanted  Ground. 


II 

It  had  for  a  moment  threatened  to  be  a  grave  acci- 
dent; but  thanks  to  the  courage  and  address  of  one 
of  the  passers-by,  this  outcome  had  been  averted. 
Without  an  instant's  hesitation  he  had  leaped  into 
the  midst  of  the  tangle  of  frightened  horses,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  freeing  the  tongue  of  the  coupe  from  the 
heavy  pole  of  the  lumber  truck,  over  which  it  had 
become  firmly  locked  by  the  pole-chains.  Seizing  the 
bridles  of  the  rearing  chestnuts,  he  had  held  them 
from  backing  the  carriage  across  the  sidewalk  into 
a  cellar  excavation,  and  had  afforded  the  red-faced 
Hibernian  drayman  a  chance  to  get  his  team  under 
control,  haul  them  off,  and  continue  on  his  way,  still 
noisily  ejaculating  strange  imprecations.  Then  the 
young  man  had  brought  the  coupe  once  more  into 
the  street,  and  led  up  the  chestnuts  alongside  the  curb. 

He  was  talking  to  them  in  a  soothing,  familiar 
voice,  and  patting  their  superbly  arched  necks  with 
a  confidence  and  gentle  authority  that  the  animals 
were  quick  to  recognize.  Their  quivering  flanks 
grew  quiet,  the  dilated  nostrils  relaxed;  and  finally, 
when  he  drew  temptingly  from  his  pocket  two  lumps 
of  sugar,  they  were  soon  nibbling  out  of  his  palms 
like  old  pets. 

6 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


As  he  stood  there  below  the  curb,  he  seemed  utterly 
oblivious  of  the  little  inconglomerate  throng  of  spec- 
tators swiftly  assembled  on  the  sidewalk,  oblivious 
too  of  the  sheepishly  grinning  coachman,  who  had  re- 
appeared from  nobody  knew  where  and  was  fussily 
examining  the  harness.  The  warm  breath  of  the  horses 
on  his  hands,  and  the  caressing  eagerness  of  their 
damp  noses  had  transported  him  far  from  city  streets. 
With  his  luxuriant  black  poll  bent  close  to  the  cheek 
of  the  nigh  mare,  he  was  affectionately  combing  out 
her  forelock  with  his  fingers  and  talking  to  her  in 
the  wheedling,  foolish,  delightful  way  of  mothers  to 
babies  and  sweethearts  to  one  another. 

It  was  the  voice  of  a  woman  that  recalled  him  with 
a  certain  shock  to  the  situation  of  the  moment. 

"Oh!  you  must  let  me  say  thank  you  to  you  for 
your  brave,  splendid  act.  Oh,  it  was  wonderful! 
How  did  you  ever,  ever  have  the  courage?" 

With  a  flush  of  quick  embarrassment  the  young 
man  looked  up,  to  see  her  standing  on  the  curbing 
in  a  shimmering  afternoon  toilette  of  pale  olive ;  and 
the  same  glance  informed  him  with  dismay  of  his  own 
bespattered  appearance. 

*'0h!"  he  stammered,  "it  wasn't  anything,  hon- 
estly, —  not  if  a  man  happens  to  know  horses." 

Instinctively  raising  his  hand  to  lift  his  hat,  he  dis- 
covered that  he  had  lost  it.  It  lay  unrecognizable  in 
the  gutter  at  his  feet. 

7 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"I  thought  I  was  going  to  be  killed/'  she  went  on, 
with  an  odd,  beguiling  accent  that  was  not  in  the 
least  American.  '^The  horses  get  frightened  some- 
how back  there.  They  start  to  run.  When  I  see 
Thomas  jump  I  hide  my  face,  —  oh,  I  was  paralyze' 
with  fright !  —  and  the  next  I  know,  there  is  a  crash, 
and  I  feel  the  carriage  tip,  and  know  it  is  going  back, 
back  across  the  sidewalk." 

She  turned  a  shuddering  look  toward  the  excava- 
tion behind  them;  then  fixed  her  eyes,  filled  with 
quick  tears  of  gratitude,  on  the  young  man's  face. 

"Oh,  how  can  I  ever,  ever  thank  you!"  she  ex- 
claimed in  a  low,  smothered  voice.  —  "I  was  going 
to  be  there  P^ 

At  the  first  sight  of  her  mud-spattered,  hatless 
rescuer,  she  had  half  opened  her  purse;  but  some- 
thing —  an  undisguisable  distinction  —  in  the  man's 
face  and  manner  had  already  caused  her  to  shut  it 
again.  The  little  group  of  spectators,  evoked  in  an 
instant  from  nowhere  in  particular,  had  already  dis- 
persed, and  the  two  were  left  to  themselves. 

"It's  thanks  enough,"  said  the  young  fellow,  "to 
have  had  this  chance  to  make  friends  with  your 
lovely  horses.  I  noticed  them  last  Saturday  in  the 
Park,  and  I  noticed  too  that  your  driver  did  n't  know 
how  to  handle  them." 

The  coachman  coughed  deprecatingly  as  he  buckled 
a  girth  into  another  hole. 

8 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"But  I'm  going  to  attend  to  that,"  she  answered, 
exhibiting  a  small,  resolute  fist.  "I  don't  intend  to 
have  my  poor  little  bones  risked  again.  But  come, 
you  must  let  me  drive  you  home  at  all  events.  You  '11 
feel  more  comfortable  than  afoot." 

"Behind  him?  Not  down  in  my  part  of  town," 
declared  the  young  man  sturdily,  while  his  dark  eyes 
danced.  "I  think  you'd  better  let  me  get  into  his 
uniform  and  take  you  home.    It  would  be  safer." 

"Oh,  for  that,  I  live  right  near  by,"  she  returned. 
"I'd  only  started  out.  Come,  give  me  the  honour  of 
your  company;  and  I  promise  to  fit  you  up  with  a 
new  hat  and  a  pair  of  gloves.  I  know  my  husband's 
will  go  you  to  perfection.  And  then  you  may  travel 
where  you  like." 

The  young  man  surveyed  himself  with  a  rueful 
smile.  "I  own  I  should  feel  more  at  ease,"  he  said, 
"with  my  clothes  brushed  and  a  hat  on." 

"Then  you'll  come?"  she  urged. 

She  turned  to  the  coachman,  who  had  regained  his 
seat  and  wore  the  imperturbable  look  of  a  man  always 
on  duty. 

"Listen,  Thomas,"  she  directed,  in  a  low  but  per- 
emptory voice.  "You're  to  drive  straight  back  home 
again ;  and  mind  you  don't  do  anything  foolish,  or 
you'll  be  sorry.  I'm  very,  very  angry  at  you." 

"Very  well,  ma'am,"  replied  the  driver,  with  per- 
fect professional  unction. 

9 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


The  young  man  handed  his  companion  into  the 
carriage,  and  she  gathered  her  skirts  a  little  closer  to 
make  room  for  him  beside  her.  There  was  a  frank, 
captivating  familiarity  in  her  manner  that  quite  re- 
lieved him  of  the  embarrassment  he  would  ordinarily 
have  experienced  under  such  circumstances.  The 
carriage  turned  about  and  began  to  retrace  its  course 
northward. 

**0h,  you  have  a  bruise  on  your  temple,"  cried  the 
woman  in  her  delicious  foreign-sounding  voice.  She 
put  the  tip  of  a  white-gloved  finger  to  it.  *'Does  it 
hurt  much,  —  he?^'  she  asked,  soHcitously. 

The  man  felt  his  nerves  tingle  at  the  light  touch. 

"On  my  word,"  he  replied,  as  offhandedly  as  pos- 
sible, "I  would  n't  even  know  I  had  it." 

"But  it  might  grow  worse,  for  all  that,"  she  ob- 
served, ingenuously,  with  a  series  of  confirmatory 
nods.  "Listen.  I  think  I  shall  have  to  do  it  up  for 
you  in  vinegar  and  brown  paper.  Would  you  not  like 
that,  — ;^^.?" 

The  young  man  looked  into  her  changeful,  impish 
eyes,  narrowed  between  golden  lashes  that  flickered ; 
and  they  both  laughed,  like  children  at  play. 

"By  all  means,"  he  agreed.  "And  if  your  hus- 
band's hat  does  not  fit  me,  you  will  doubtless  lend 
me  one  of  yours.  Oh,  I  shall  get  home  in  excellent 
shape,  I  am  sure." 

"Ah,  but  the  hat  will  fit,  my  dear.  I  can  tell."  She 

lO 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


looked  at  his  head  critically.  "You  must  wear  a 
seven,  —  he?^'  She  always  brought  out  her  little  in- 
terrogatory syllable  with  a  sort  of  bird-like  chirp  that 
was  irresistible. 

"I  do,"  he  answered,  laughing. 

"But  that  is  my  dear,  dear  Frederic's  size,"  she 
afi&rmed,  with  another  series  of  emphatic  nods  that 
made  the  white  and  green  plumes  on  her  hat  brush 
his  cheek  lightly.  "And  his  gloves,  —  I  do  not  know 
the  size;  but  look,  spread  out  your  hand  —  so! 
Oh,  yes,  they  will  fit,  I  give  you  my  word.  Ah,  but 
your  hands  are  very  artistic.  Are  you  an  artist,  my 
frien'?" 

"Only  an  impecunious  young  architect,"  answered 
her  companion. 

"Ah,  well,  it  is  all  the  same,"  she  declared.  "Is 
not  the  architecture  an  art  ?  But  for  Frederic  —  it 
is  too  bad  he  will  not  be  at  home  to-day.  He  is  always 
away  somewhere  on  these  long  business  trips,  you  see." 
She  fingered  her  muff  demurely. 

"You  must  miss  him  very  much,"  were  the  words 
that  came,  quite  unpremeditatedly,  from  the  young 
man's  lips.  His  manner  had  the  same  apparent  in- 
genuousness as  hers. 

He  looked  at  her,  and  saw  her  purse  her  mobile 
lips  the  least  bit  in  the  world,  while  she  dug  two  fin- 
gers into  the  depths  of  the  silver-furred  muff. 

"Oh,  very''  she  murmured,  not  raising  her  eyes. 

II 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"Very,  very  much."  The  innuendo  was  just  detect- 
ible  in  the  little  drawl  of  her  utterance. 

"And  then,  you  would  admire  him,  too,"  she  went 
on,  naively.  "He  is  just  as  beautiful  and  handsome- 
looking,  my  dear,  as  —  as  what  am  I  going  to  say  ? 
—  as  one  of  these  models  —  dummies,  you  know,  — 
M?  —  you  see  in  the  window  of  a  clothier's.  I  al- 
ways say  to  him, 

"  Frederic,  my  cherub,  you  should  go  into  comic 
opera.  You  would  make  your  fortune  as  the  tenor.' 

"To  be  sure,  he  cannot  sing;  but  what  difference 
does  that  make,  nowadays;  and  besides,  I  am  sure 
there  is  more  money  in  it  than  in  these  races.  Don't 
you  think  so,  my  frien'  ?  —  But  wait,  I  am  going  to 
show  you  Frederic's  picture,  and  then  you  can  tell 
better." 

She  opened  a  jewelled  locket  that  hung  from  her 
neck,  flecked  her  web  of  a  handkerchief  across  it, 
and  turned  it  to  his  gaze. 

"There!"  she  said.  "I  will  make  you  introduce'. 
Frederic,  my  dear,  this  is  the  noble  young  gentleman 
who  rescue  my  li^e.  Mister  —  What  is  your  name, 
my  frien'?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  demure  seriousness. 

"Wetherell,"  he  replied,  "Philip  Wetherell,  at  your 
service." 

"Ved — Wederell,"  —  She  made  a  pucker  of  de- 
spair at  the  Saxon  consonants.  "Oh,  what  a  name! 

11 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Say,  that  is  very,  very  American,  —  he  ?  Well,  Mr. 
Wet'erell,  this  is  my  husband,  Mr.  Frederic  Orlando 
Murchard  Brace.  Look  at  him.  Is  he  not  a  treasure, 
then?'' 

Her  companion  had  to  bend  very  close  in  order  to 
get  a  good  view  of  the  miniature. 

"It  flatters  him  a  ver'  little,"  she  commented,  with 
a  regretful  shake  of  the  head.  "One  must  admit, 
you  know,  that  his  nose  is  becoming  too  red.  I  sup- 
pose it  is  the  sun-bum.  That  is  what  he  tells  me.  Is 
not  the  sun  hot  in  New  Orleans  and  those  places 
down  there?" 
J.    "I  have  heard  so,"  was  the  sage  reply. 

"I  tell  him,  'Frederic,  my  dear,  you  must  have  a 
little  par'sol  made  for  your  nose,  —  you  see,  so!'" 
—  She  shaped  it  with  her  fingers  —  " '  like  this,  with 
two  little  wings  that  would  look  like  a  butterfly  quite 
naturally  alighted  on  it.  You  must  save  your  complex- 
ion, my  chile,'  I  say,  'or  those  nice  Creole  girls  will 
not  fall  in  love  with  you  any  more.  And  what  would 
you  do  then?'" 

She  closed  the  locket  with  the  ghost  of  a  sigh ;  then 
flung  herself  back  with  abandon  into  the  deep-cush- 
ioned seat. 

"That  is  the  kind  of  husband  I  like,"  she  con- 
cluded, crisply,  with  a  short,  descriptive  gesture.  — 
"He  make  no  trouble  for  you  at  all.  He  says,  'Look, 
my  dear  Katrinka,  I  go  my  way,  and  I  do  not 

13 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


kick  if  you  go  yours/  —  and  so  we  rest  always,  oh, 
such  good  frien's.  —  Look,  my  man,  here  we  are 
arrive',  at  last.  Now  you  come  with  me  and  I  fit  you 
to  a  fine  hat  and  some  lovely,  lovely  gloves." 

The  coupe  had  come  to  a  stop  before  a  pretentious 
apartment  hotel  on  one  of  the  avenues  northward 
from  the  Park.  The  door  was  opened. 

*^You  wait  one  little  second,  Mr.  Wet'erell,"  said 
his  companion,  "while  I  have  one  word  with  my 
curse  of  a  coachman." 

Once  outside,  the  young  man  was  irresistibly  drawn 
again  to  the  horses'  heads.  He  petted  the  lovely  crea- 
tures with  enamoured  admiration,  and  found  another 
lump  of  sugar  for  each  of  them.  He  felt  singularly 
elated,  without  quite  knowing  why. 

"You  like  animals,  — he?^^  asked  his  friend,  join- 
ing him  shortly. 

He  gave  her  a  radiant  smile.  "When  I  was  a  young- 
ster," he  said,  "I  used  to  live  on  a  horse's  back.  These 
are  beauties." 

"Listen,"  she  said,  with  a  little  touch  of  difiidence 
that  flattered  him:  "some  day, — would  you  like  it? 
— we  have  them  put  to  a  nice  little  cart,  just  you 
and  me,  and  we  go  for  a  lovely,  lovely  drive  in  the 
Park.    Would  you  not  like  that,  he?'' 

She  was  leading  the  way  into  the  hotel,  and  he 
followed  her,  observing  for  the  first  time  the  supple 
coquetry  of  her  figure.     Every  movement  seemed 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


alive,  individually  expressive.  Her  small  foot,  shod 
in  green  suede,  set  itself  with  elastic  firmness  and 
precision  on  the  pavement.  There  was  something 
compact,  resilient,  magnetic  about  her  physique  that 
waylaid  the  imagination. 

She  nodded  affably  to  the  coloured  door-boy,  who 
brought  out  an  admiring,  "Howdy,  Mis'  Brace.  Say, 
but  you  sho  look  c?e-licious ! "  and  they  entered  the 
elevator. 

"Dat  nigger,"  declared  the  elevator-boy,  as  he 
pushed  the  crank,  "he  suttenly  mus'  have  a  bug, 
Mis'  Brace.  I  tell  him  he  gwine  get  kicked  out  o' 
dis  yer  place  for  sho  if  he  talk  that-a-way  to  a  lady. 
He's  too  familiah,  that's  what  he  sho  is,  ma'm." 

The  woman  laughed  in  perfect  good  humour. 
"But  I'm  afraid  you're  one  little  bit  jealous,  Alex- 
ander," she  said.  "Do  you  think  it's  wrong  for  him 
to  tell  me  the  truth  ?  Or  perhaps  you  think  different  ?  " 

The  darkey  beamed  above  serried  ivories.  "Me 
think  different  ?  Oh,  Lordy,  Mis'  Brace !  You  sut- 
tenly is  the  mos'  beautiful  lady  in  this  whole  univer- 
sal city." 

"Ah,  that's  good,"  she  laughed.  "Now  I'm  sure 
of  it.  There,  Alexander,  there's  something  for  telling 
the  truth.  Always  tell  the  truth,  and  some  day  you  '11 
go  to  darkey  heaven." 

She  slipped  a  coin  into  his  pocket  as  they  emerged 
from  the  elevator  on  the  ninth  floor. 

15 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


Wetherell  recognized  in  the  easy  familiarity  of  her 
demeanour  the  self-confidence  of  one  perfectly  habit- 
uated to  deference  from  the  other  sex.  In  many 
women  there  would  have  been  a  needful  taint  of 
effrontery  in  such  facile  camaraderie;  in  her  it  was 
only  an  additional  fascination. 

They  were  admitted  to  a  luxuriously  furnished 
apartment  by  a  middle-aged,  discreet-visaged  person 
whom  she  addressed  as  Susan. 

"Oh,  such  a  time,  Susan,  my  dear!''  she  cried:  "I 
came  within  a  hair  of  losing  my  precious  little  life. 
Oh,  I  never  had  such  a  fright,  I  swear  to  you !  And 
this  is  the  young  man  that  rescue  me.  Don't  you  feel 
ver',  ver'  grateful  to  him?  —  There,  that's  a  dear." 

She  tossed  her  hat  nonchalantly  into  the  woman's 
hands,  threw  off  her  furs,  and  sank  with  a  sigh  of 
fatigue  into  a  deep  chair. 

"Susan,  will  you  bring  us  a  little  pot  of  tea,  like  a 
good  soul  ?  And  oh,  I  'm  so  glad  you  have  lighted  the 
fire.  I  never  was  so  done  up  since  the  day  I  was 
bore,  I  swear  to  you!"  She  added  some  directions 
in  a  language  that  was  strange  to  her  companion's 
ears. 

"Perhaps,"  suggested  Wetherell,  audaciously,  "she 
might  bring  me  a  clothes-brush.  I  should  truly  like 
to  present  a  somewhat  more  respectable  appearance." 

Without  Hfting  her  head  from  the  back  of  the 
chair,  Katrinka  gave  him  a  languidly  critical  regard. 

i6 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"Oh,  you  look  ver'  charming,  my  dear,"  she  averred, 
impersonally.  "An  artist  would  admire  you  much 
better  like  this  than  with  all  the  character  brushed 
and  smoothed  out  of  you.  Your  hair  is  positively 
splendid.  It  looks  like  the  under  side  of  the  wing  of 
a — what  do  you  call  one  of  those  things  in  English? 
—  krage  is  the  word  in  Danish.  Corbeau  ?  No,  that 's 
French." 

"How  about  crow?"  laughed  Wetherell. 

"Ye-es,"  she  agreed.  "That  is  it.  Crow.  I  can 
see  blue  in  it,  even, —  indigo !  And  such  a  nice  horsey 
smell!  No,  you  shall  sit  down  first  and  get  rested 
while  you  are  still  my  brave  chevalier.  —  Say,  have 
you  Italian  blood  in  you?  Surely  your  eyes  came 
from  Naples !  Oh,  you  could  be  terrible  if  you  were 
angry;"  she  repeated  the  word  with  a  prolonged  trill; 
^^  ter-r-reeble  P^ 

Susan  entered  with  the  tray ;  and  the  tea  was  poured. 
"See,  and  there  goes  a  wee  dash  of  joy  into  yours," 
she  said.   "You  may  have  more  if  you  like." 

They  sat  most  cosily  before  the  fire,  sipping  and 
smoking  and  chatting.  The  young  man  felt  im- 
mensely at  ease,  as  he  watched  her  over  the  rim  of 
his  cup,  and  laughed  at  her  incessantly  delightful 
originaKties  of  speech  and  facial  expression. 

No,  she  was  not  exactly  beautiful ;  but  there  was  a 
spell  about  her  that  dazzled  him  more  from  minute 
to  minute.   Her  skin  was  quite  colourless,  of  exquisite 

17 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


texture,  with  an  elusive,  transparent  radiancy,  over 
blue  veins,  faintly  visible;  and  her  small  but  won- 
drously  mobile  features  were  set  off  by  coiled  hair  of 
a  glinting  grey-brown,  instinct,  like  her  lustrous  skin, 
with  an  elusive  vitality,  and  of  a  web-like  fineness, 
—  masses  of  it,  only  half  subjugated  to  braid  and 
nacre  comb,  and  strangely  enmeshing  the  light, 
either  the  cold,  white  November  daylight,  in  which 
she  might  have  been  a  sprite  from  some  storied 
forest,  or  the  ruddy  flickerings  of  the  wood-fire  that 
transformed  her  into  an  enchantress  of  the  Venus- 
berg. 

"And  now  tell  me,"  she  said,  "oh,  wonder  of  a 
man,  what  happy,  happy  chance  brought  you  to  that 
particular  corner  of  West  Central  Park  at  that  par- 
ticular moment  this  afternoon  when  little  Katrinka 
was  going  to  be  hurled  into  that  big  cellar?" 

She  drew  up  her  feet  under  her  like  a  little  forest 
animal,  and  lighted  another  cigarette. 

"'Tis  a  short  and  simple  tale,"  responded  the 
man,  setting  down  his  empty  cup  with  something  of 
a  flourish.  "But  such  as  it  is,  you  shall  have  it.  For 
it  came  to  pass  that  the  partner  in  a  certain  architect- 
ural firm  was  dead,  after  many  months ;  and  therefore 
unto  all  the  employes  —  draughtsmen,  stenographers, 
nay,  even  bell-boys  —  was  a  half-day  of  mourning 
accorded.  And  one  and  all  gladly  went  forth  to  enjoy 
themselves.    And  a  certain  draughtsman,  being  but 

i8 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


newly  come  to  the  city  and  still  destitute  of  friends, 
had  wandered  from  his  lowly  abode  in  Greenwich 
Village  to  take  the  air  in  the  Park,  tease  the  squir- 
rels, and  watch  the  horses.  He  has  left  the  Elevated ; 
already  he  has  turned  his  steps  toward  the  East.  Lo, 
a  sound  of  runaway  hoofs,  a  crash,  a  commotion, 
curses,  plunging  steeds !  — '' 

"Splendid,  my  dear!  Admirable F'  cried  his  audi- 
tor, clasping  her  hands  dramatically.  "I  see  it  all 
again.  The  driver  gone !  The  coupe  going  back,  back, 
bump!  —  tipping  over  oh,  frightfully!  —  and  inside 
there,  a  white  face  and  a  crouching  form,  —  that's 
me,  —  he  —  believing  that  the  end  of  the  world  had 
come,  sure,  sure.  And  then  a  firm,  brave,  manly 
voice;  a  hand  at  the  bridles  —  Oh,  my  splendid 
hero!" 

She  sprang  with  impetuous  abandon  from  her 
chair,  touched  her  fingers  lightly  to  his  shoulders,  and 
kissed  him. 

"There,  you  won't  refuse  that  poor  little  token  of 
gratitude  from  Katrinka  Brace,  will  you,  mon  petit  ?" 
she  laughed,  as  she  danced  out  of  the  room.  —  "Now 
I'm  going  to  hunt  for  the  gloves  and  the  hat." 

Philip  Wetherell  caught  his  breath,  and  sat  motion- 
less for  a  few  dizzy  seconds.  Then  he  looked  about 
him  stupidly,  ran  his  hand  through  his  hair,  as  if  to 
assure  himself  that  he  had  not  been  dreaming,  and 
rose  to  his  feet.  His  knees  were  trembling  oddly  under 

19 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


him.  Automatically,  scarcely  noticing  anything  upon 
which  his  eyes  rested,  he  made  a  tour  of  the  room. 
He  glanced  out  of  the  window  into  the  bleak,  wind- 
swept street  far  below ;  but  he  could  not  have  told  what 
he  saw.  There  were  jars  of  flowers  on  the  window- 
ledge,  and  on  the  table ;  but  though  he  stooped  to  in- 
hale their  fragrance,  he  did  not  observe  whether  they 
were  chrysanthemums  or  roses.  A  tiny  oil  painting 
on  the  wall  near  the  piano  caught  his  eye,  and  he  drew 
near  to  examine  it. 

Wetherell  knew  something  about  pictures ;  and  his 
first  glance  at  this  one  restored  him  to  his  wits,  for 
he  recognized  that  the  workmanship  was  quite  ex- 
ceptional. It  was  a  little  idyll,  deliciously  executed 
in  the  spirit  of  a  miniature :  —  a  woodland  pool,  over- 
hung by  dank,  gleaming  rocks  and  bosky  foliage ;  and 
at  one  side,  in  a  white  light  so  without  warmth  that 
it  seemed  to  have  emanated,  somehow,  from  the  still 
heart  of  the  pool  itself,  a  nymph,  kneeling,  and  hold- 
ing out  her  hand  invitingly  to  a  tiny  green  enamelled 
frog  that  sat  on  the  yellow  pad  of  a  lily.  The  vibrant 
lustre  of  the  white  flesh,  the  seductiveness  of  the 
slender,  elf-Hke  physique,  the  singular  luminosity 
of  the  hair,  which,  hanging  almost  to  the  water's 
touch,  seemed  to  have  something  of  the  very  sub- 
stance of  Hght  in  it,  possessing  no  particular  colour 
more  than  an  admixture  of  all  colours  — 

In  the  midst  of  his  admiration  of  these  traits,  the 

20 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


painter's  subject  suddenly  flashed  itself  upon  his 
perception. 

**Well,  and  how  do  you  like  it?"  inquired  his 
hostess,  who  had  returned  to  the  room  without  his 
knowledge. 

Confusion  tied  his  tongue  for  the  moment. 

"But  it's  not  at  all  bad,  —  he?^^  she  went  on,  in  a 
perfectly  offhand  manner,  coming  to  his  side.  "Poor 
old  Butscha !  —  you  never  knew  him,  of  course.  He 
did  that.  Oh,  he  was  crazy  about  me.  For  a  year, 
more  than  a  year,  I  was  his  only  subject.  Always 
nymphs  or  dryads,  you  know,  always  that  white  light, 
—  and  oh,  such  original  ideas !  That  was  in  Paris, 
you  know.  Butscha  saw  me  on  the  street  in  Copen- 
hagen one  day,  and  followed  me  for  two  miles.  He 
told  me  I  must  go  to  Paris  with  him,  or  he  would 
shoot  himself.  Poor  old  wild  darling !  Every  one  said 
he  would  have  made  a  tremendous  success  in  a  little 
longer.  —  It  was  absinthe,  you  know." 

A  sudden  wave  of  tenderness  came  over  her;  she 
turned  her  back  in  silence,  glided  across  the  room, 
and  took  a  cigarette  from  the  chased  silver  box  that 
lay  on  the  tabouret. 

"Is  n't  it  terrible,"  she  said,  in  an  altered  voice,  after 
a  few  seconds,  "oh,  is  n't  it  ter-r-rihle,  my  dear,  to  think 
that  some  day  we  must  all  die  like  that,  and  be  put  down 
under  the  ground  where  the  worms  are !  Oh !  I  saw 
them  put  Butsch  down  there !  I  shall  never  forget  it ! " 

21 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Turning,  Philip  saw  a  shudder  pass  over  her  throat 
and  shoulders ;  and  a  fleeting  horror  enlarged  the  whites 
of  her  eyes  through  the  tears  that  still  lingered. 

"Oh,  if  you  could  only  have  seen  Butschy,"  she 
went  on,  with  a  dim  smile,  "you  would  understand. 
He  was  such  a  love  of  a  man,  —  so  gay,  so  jolly,  so 
hot-tempered,  so  artistic,  and  with  hair  —  my  dear 
man,  you  have  hair  just  like  that!  It  was  the  first 
thing  I  noticed.  Everybody  in  the  Quartier  adored 
Butsch." 

She  tossed  her  cigarette  into  the  fire,  and  watched 
in  silence  the  vivid  yellow  flame  that  licked  it  up. 

A  strange  embarrassment  came  over  the  man.  In 
the  silence  he  became  conscious  of  tameless  impulses 
astir  within  him,  and  he  was  afraid.  "I  must  be  going 
along,"  he  said,  in  a  forced  voice. 

"Oh,"  she  said.   "Must  you?" 

She  raised  her  face  to  him  with  an  odd  smile  that 
might  have  been  regret  or  surprise  or  even  pity. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Philip,  rising  with  abrupt  reso- 
lution. 

"Well,  here  are  the  articles  out  of  my  family  ward- 
robe." She  tried  to  speak  gaily;  but  there  was  a  soft- 
ness in  her  voice  that  belied  her.  "Come,  my  frien', 
see  if  I  am  not  right  about  the  fit." 

Five  minutes  later  he  was  ready  for  the  street  again, 
brushed,  combed,  and  properly  habited.  He  had 
not  dared  look  once  into  the  woman's  eyes.  Now  that 

22 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


the  moment  for  saying  good-by  had  come,  he  was 
almost  impotent  to  utter  the  words.  An  immense 
awkwardness  seemed  to  glue  his  feet  to  the  ground. 

"Well,  good-by!"  he  managed  to  bring  out  at  last, 
offering  his  hand. 

She  pushed  it  away  from  her  with  a  little  reproach- 
ful gesture.  "I  believe  you  have  no  heart  at  all,"  she 
said. 

She  saw  the  muscles  of  his  cheeks  and  neck  flicker. 
Her  manner  changed  at  once.  "I  did  not  mean  that," 
she  said  softly.  "Listen,  —  I  was  going  to  say  some- 
thing. Let  me  see.  What  was  it  ?  You  have  sent  it 
out  of  my  head." 

Almost  timidly  she  put  out  her  hand  to  his  coat 
collar  and  flecked  away  a  bit  of  dust.  "Well,  listen," 
she  said,  ingratiatingly.  "Did  you  have  any  engage- 
ment for  this  evening?" 

"No,"  he  replied. 

The  word  came  out  with  fatal,  automatic  prompt- 
ness. Something  deep  within  had  bidden  him  per- 
emptorily to  say  yes ;  but  a  whole  battery  of  quickly 
arrayed  instincts  had  delivered  the  contrary  response 
before  he  was  aware. 

Two  bright  spots  had  appeared  in  her  cheeks,  and 
she  did  not  look  at  him  directly  as  she  continued, 
haltingly:  "Well,  this  is  what  I  was  going  to  say. 
Listen.  Why  would  n't  you  perhaps  come  up  here 
about  eight  o'clock,  or  nine,  and  we  have  a  little 

23 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


supper,  say,  —  just  the  two  of  us,  you  know,  like  in 
a  studio,  —  and  a  nice  little  good  time.  Would  you 
not  like  that,  — /^e?'' 

Seizing  her  hand  he  crushed  it  to  his  lips.  Without 
another  word,  as  if  seeking  refuge  from  some  dis- 
aster that  threatened,  he  abruptly  quitted  the  apart- 
ment, shutting  the  door  after  him  with  unintentional 
violence. 

The  woman  gazed  an  instant,  with  an  inscrutable 
smile,  at  the  red  mark  on  the  back  of  her  hand,  then 
pressed  it  with  a  little  sob  against  her  cheeks  and 
mouth. 

"He  will  come,"  she  said  to  herself,  almost  aloud. 
—  "He  does  not  want  to  come ;  but  he  will  come." 


Ill 

As  Wetherell  made  his  way,  half-dazed,  down  the 
windy  avenue  and  into  the  Park  by  one  of  its  north- 
em  entrances,  the  only  clear  sentiment  in  his  mind 
was  one  of  deliverance.  A  spell  had  been  broken. 
The  drug  he  had  been  tasting  and  which  had  so  dizzily 
mounted  to  his  head  appeared  to  have  lost  its  potency 
as  soon  as  he  found  himself  out  of  doors.  He  filled  his 
lungs  with  deep  draughts  of  the  bracing  November 
air;  he  scarcely  succeeded  in  repressing  an  impulse 
to  run  and  shout. 

The  insidious  witchery  of  the  warm,  flower-scented 
atmosphere,  of  changeful  firelight,  of  physical  near- 
ness, had  all  but  worked  its  way  with  him.  The  thing 
he  had  escaped  from  looked  ugly  to  him  now,  deformed 
and  loathsome,  hke  the  false  Duessa,  whom  the  Red 
Crosse  Knight  saw  at  last  stripped  of  her  enchant- 
ments ;  and  he  wondered  how  he  could  have  come  so 
near  succumbing  to  it. 

With  hands  unconsciously  clenched,  he  breasted  a 
little  wooded  knoll  and  seated  himself  on  a  secluded 
bench,  —  a  favourite  resort  of  his,  sheltered  from  the 
wind  and  quite  cut  off  from  the  world  of  the  city, 
except  for  a  glimpse  it  gave,  through  bare  branches, 
of  the  constant  flight  of  automobiles  along  a  curving 

25 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


driveway  far  below.  He  felt  the  necessity  of  getting 
his  mind  in  order,  of  comprehending  what  he  had 
just  been  through,  and  assuring  himself  of  where  he 
stood. 

*^I  can  tell  her  everything.  I  can  tell  her  every- 
thing," was  the  thought  that  declared  itself,  over  and 
over,  in  his  mind,  as  clearly  as  a  voice. 

Half -automatically  he  put  his  hand  to  his  inner  waist- 
coat pocket  and  drawing  thence  a  small  leather  folder, 
opened  it,  and  gazed  with  devouring  intentness  upon 
the  photograph  it  contained.  It  was  of  a  girl  still  in 
the  first  full  radiance  of  womanly  beauty,  not  older 
certainly  than  twenty-two  or  twenty-three  years,  and 
of  a  proud,  candid,  high-spirited  mien  that  infallibly 
betokened  race,  yes,  and  not  that  alone,  but  the 
cherished  consciousness  of  it,  too.  Other  generations 
than  hers  looked  out  from  those  deeply  shadowed 
eyes,  and  breathed  in  the  sensitive,  slightly  lifted 
nostrils ;  and  the  evenly  arched  mouth,  with  its  short, 
clear-marked  upper  Hp,  seemed  to  have  more  in  it 
of  the  will  to  plan  and  execute  than  of  the  sub- 
missive softness  commonly  considered  a  grace  in 
woman. 

Yet  despite  the  somewhat  aggressive  pose  of  the 
aristocratic  young  head  and  the  noticeable  elevation 
of  the  finely  modelled  chin,  there  was  an  expression 
distinct,  yet  hard  to  analyze,  of  wistfulness ;  as  if  the 
soul  behind  these  outward  lineaments  could  not  quite 

26 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


conform  itself  to  their  demands.  Possibly  this  hint 
lay  in  the  slight  parting  of  the  lips,  or  perhaps  in  a 
certain  liquid  gentleness  of  the  eyes  that  seemed  to 
have  sought  refuge  rather  than  to  have  made  their 
home  by  choice  under  their  noble  brows:  at  all  events, 
the  spiritual  incongruity  was  there,  and  served  to 
enhance  the  loveliness  of  the  face,  by  affording  just 
that  quick  human  appeal  that  is  so  often  lacking  in 
the  features  of  high-born  maidens. 

The  minutes  passed,  and  Wetherell  still  gazed 
with  uninterrupted  absorption  at  the  face  before 
him ;  but  his  mind  was  not  at  all  occupied  in  decipher- 
ing the  enigma  of  its  beauty. 

He  was  remembering  the  hour,  almost  a  year  ago, 
now,  when  he  had  said  good-by  to  Georgia  Raebum. 
It  was  night  on  the  hills  of  northwestern  Connecti- 
cut, and  the  snow  lay  still  unbroken  under  the  cold 
moonlight.  She  had  come  out  to  the  porch  with  him, 
a  filmy  scarf  over  her  abundant  dark  hair;  and  for 
one  ineffable  moment  he  had  held  her  in  his  arms, 
her  lips  yielded  to  his  own. 

There  are  moments  in  every  life  that  time  never 
effaces  the  perfect  memory  of,  —  moments  to  which 
all  external  circumstances  seem  to  contribute  their 
measure  of  appropriate  beauty.  Philip  saw,  as  clearly 
as  if  it  had  been  yesterday,  the  gleaming  radiance  of 
the  snow  on  the  lawn,  and  of  the  white  rim  that  every 
branch  and  twig  lifted  into  the  moonlight.    The  tall 

27 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


colonial  columns  of  the  porch,  the  dark  tangle  of  the 
bare  wistaria,  icicle-hung,  that  festooned  their  capi- 
tals, the  long  black  shadows  on  the  floor, — even  the 
sound  of  his  mare  restlessly  pawing  the  snow  of  the 
driveway, — it  all  made  a  complete  and  thrilling  fact 
of  memory. 

With  a  quivering  sigh  he  had  released  her  at  last. 
"IcanH  say  good-by,"  he  had  whispered.  '^What  am 
I  going  to  do  without  you?" 

The  brave,  resolute  smile  she  had  returned  to  him, 
through  eyes  that  glistened,  illumined  dark  places 
in  his  heart.  "You  will  not  have  to  do  without  me, 
Philip.   I  shall  be  with  you  all  the  time." 

He  had  quickly  risen  to  the  height  of  her  own  noble 
spirit.  "I  know  you  will,"  he  had  said.  "I  can  share 
everything  with  you.  I  shall  have  something  fine  to 
live  for,  —  to  make  you  proud  of  me ! " 

"You  are  going  out  into  the  world  to  do  splendid 
things,"  she  said.  "You  are  my  knight,  Philip;  and 
I  sit  in  my  tower,  waiting  for  your  return.  I  can  wait 
a  long  time,  because  I  know  you  will  come." 

He  pressed  her  hand  reverently  to  his  lips. 

"Have  you  decided  to  tell  the  Colonel?"  he  asked, 
using  the  appellation  for  her  father  that  he  had  used 
since  childhood. 

"I  rather  think  I  won't  —  not  yet,  Philip,"  she 
had  answered  softly.  "I  have  the  feeling,  —  I  don't 
know  if  I  'm  right,  —  that  just  now  he  wants  me  all 

28 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


for  himself.  You  understand  what  I  mean  ?  But  you 
know  how  fond  he  is  of  you;  —  he  likes  us  to  be 
friends." 

It  had  been  easy  enough  for  him  to  apprehend  her 
position.  Colonel  Raebum  had  been  a  virtual  invalid 
for  some  years.  Of  late  his  invalidism  had  become 
almost  complete.  Georgia  was  his  devoted  nurse,  his 
inseparable  companion.  She  adored  her  father.  She 
had  willingly  sacrificed  the  last  years  of  a  college 
course  to  be  with  him.  His  minute  exactions  upon 
her  strength  and  affection,  which  would  sometimes 
have  seemed  tyrannical  to  any  heart  less  generously 
dedicated  than  hers,  were  always  gladly  responded 
to.  She  was  proud  to  know  herself  necessary  to  him. 
There  was  no  rebellion  in  her  soul  against  the  isola- 
tion of  her  lot ;  nor  was  it  indeed  in  any  desire  for 
freedom  nor  in  hunger  for  a  new  and  different  love 
that  she  had  given  her  promise  to  Philip  Wetherell. 

They  had  always  been  friends.  For  some  years 
she  had  felt  herself  to  be  singled  out  in  a  pecuKar  sense 
by  his  heart.  And  she  knew  that  she  loved  him.  His 
fineness  and  generosity  of  spirit,  his  courage,  his  tal- 
ents, and  the  glowing  intensity  of  his  affection  were 
all  very  precious  to  her.  She  loved  him  most  for  the 
qualities  in  which  he  most  resembled  the  one  object 
of  her  adoration.  Philip  knew  that  her  father  held 
first  place  in  her  heart,  and  he  was  too  generous  to 
be  jealous  or  to  claim  more  for  himself  —  now.   Be- 

29 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


sides  he  had  no  right,  he  believed,  to  ask  for  more. 
His  career  was  all  ahead  of  him ;  he  was  only  at  the 
beginning.  He  had  nothing  to  offer  her  but  hope 
and  dreams;  and  it  made  him  proud  that  she  was 
willing  to  share  these  with  him. 

Consequently  when  she  had  told  him  of  her  decision 
to  say  nothing  to  her  father,  he  had  immediately 
acquiesced.  "You  know  better  than  I  what  is  best," 
he  said.  "Everything  will  be  between  ourselves  as 
long  as  you  wish." 

Their  talk  had  been  interrupted  by  the  tinkle  of 
a  bell  from  within  the  house. 

"I  must  go,"  she  whispered,  and  turned  her  face 
quickly  to  him  for  the  parting  kiss.  "Good-by, 
Philip." 

An  instant  later  he  had  leaped  to  Griselda's  back, 
and  was  tearing  away  through  the  powdery  snow, 
which  broke  into  a  cloud  under  her  flying  hoofs. 

The  months  that  followed  had  seen  the  completion, 
with  high  honours,  of  his  graduate  course  at  the  Poly- 
technic; a  brief,  memorable  pilgrimage  to  the  chief 
architectural  shrines  of  France  and  Italy ;  and  his  es- 
tablishment, now  six  weeks  old,  in  the  draughting- 
room  of  a  downtown  firm,  where  flattering  prospects 
partly  compensated  for  a  meagre  salary.  Shortly 
before  his  return  from  the  other  side,  Georgia  had 
accompanied  her  father  to  a  sanatorium  of  the  middle 
west,  in  the  hope  that  the  change  of  air  and  routine 

30 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


might  bring  some  benefit  to  his  valvular  trouble ;  and 
lately  the  news  that  had  come  to  Philip  had  been 
most  gratifying. 

He  was  better,  yes,  it  did  really  seem  so,  than  for 
many  months.  He  could  walk  about  with  compara- 
tive ease ;  he  could  see  people  without  being  exhausted 
by  it;  his  appetite  was  improving;  he  was  sleeping 
well ;  his  spirits  were  less  clouded,  —  he  laughed  often, 
and  seemed  happy  to  talk  of  old  times.  They  were 
even  making  plans  to  return  to  Highstone  for  the 
winter.  Philip  would  be  coming  home  perhaps  — 
could  n't  he  manage  it  ?  —  for  the  holiday  and  week- 
end. There  would  be  long  rides  together  over  their 
favourite  roads,  and  a  tramp  to  the  top  of  dear  old 
Yelping  Hill,  where  the  witch-hazel  would  be  sure 
to  be  in  blossom. 

Philip  had  not  delayed  to  assure  her  that  he  could 
manage  it.  By  putting  in  several  evenings  at  the  ofiice, 
he  had  already  guaranteed  himself  the  extra  day 
and  a  half.  For  the  past  fortnight  the  thought  of  the 
return  to  the  hills  and  of  seeing  Georgia  again  had  be- 
come a  preoccupation  with  him,  filling  every  moment 
of  leisure,  and  often  intruding  unbidden  upon  his 
working  hours.  He  was  hungry  for  her.  He  trembled 
at  the  idea  of  holding  her  in  his  arms  once  more,  and 
of  feeling  her  cheek  close  to  his  own.  The  intimacy 
and  freedom  of  talk  they  would  have  was  most  de- 
lightful to  him  in  anticipation,  —  the  mere  being  again 

31 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


with  some  one  who  cared  for  him,  who  shared  his 
ideals  and  ambitions. 

Still  new  to  the  life  of  the  metropolis,  he  had  not 
yet  recovered  from  the  cruel  loneliness  that  a  sensi- 
tive nature  always  experiences  in  the  presence  of 
countless  thousands  of  fellow- beings  utterly  unknown 
to  it.  Never  a  face  out  of  all  those  multitudes  that 
he  recognized !  He  was  quick  to  sense  the  vast,  multi- 
plex, enthralling  life  of  the  total  organism;  but  still 
he  was  outside  it  all.  He  did  not  yet  belong.  He  had 
not  formed  any  intimate  ties.  His  shyness  stood  in 
his  way,  and  an  instinctive  fastidiousness  which  de- 
manded a  something  in  friendship  that  none  of  his 
new  acquaintances  seemed  ready  to  afford. 

Loyal  moreover  to  the  principles  of  his  New  Eng- 
land upbringing,  he  had  not  yielded  to  any  of  the 
city's  facile  seductions,  despite  a  temperament  whose 
ardour  was  almost  meridional,  and  a  craving  for  plea- 
sure that  corresponded  in  its  intensity  to  the  freedom 
and  masculine  vigour  of  his  imagination.  But  this 
loyalty  had  been  maintained  only  at  the  price  of  se- 
vere and  costly  struggles,  —  the  more  severe  and  the 
more  costly  from  the  fact  that  they  must  always  be 
most  resolutely  persevered  in  when  discouragement, 
or  loneliness,  or  fatigue  was  heaviest  upon  his  soul. 

Then  it  was  that  the  impulses  to  let  go,  to  drink 
deeply  of  the  cup  of  indulgence,  had  been  most  im- 
perative; and  there  were  more  than  a  few  nights  al- 

32 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


ready  in  the  tale  of  these  six  weeks  when  he  had  bound 
himself  remorselessly  to  the  perusal  of  the  pages  of  a 
technical  treatise,  not  daring  to  let  his  mind  out  of  its 
leash  for  an  instant ;  or  had  paced  up  and  down  West 
Street  with  clenched  hands,  timing  the  journey  to 
the  Battery  and  back.  On  such  occasions  the  thought 
of  Georgia  and  his  hope  of  seeing  her  before  many 
weeks  and  the  pride  he  had  that  he  could  tell  her 
everything  without  shame  or  apology  were  his  great- 
est moral  reinforcements.  It  was  just  these,  indeed, 
that  had  plucked  him  to-day,  a  craft  already  caught 
in  a  maelstrom,  from  the  most  vertiginous  temptation 
of  his  life. 

He  realized  it  with  a  new  keenness  now  as,  having 
replaced  the  leather  case,  he  continued  to  sit  there 
on  the  Park  bench  and  began  a  mental  review  of  the 
scenes  through  which  he  had  so  lately  passed,  —  the 
street  accident,  the  drive  in  the  coupe  with  its  first  al- 
luring intimations,  then  the  cosy,  familiar,  audacious 
tete-a-tete  by  the  fire,  —  a  whole  procession  of  mem- 
ories flashed  before  him  with  a  faint,  dangerous  revival 
of  the  warmth  and  colour  of  the  original  scenes  them- 
selves; and  he  found  himself  looking  once  more  at 
the  small,  elfin  face  of  Katrinka,  with  its  white  skin, 
golden-grey  eyes,  and  strange,  light-filled  hair;  saw 
the  flickering  of  each  changeful  mood  across  the 
mobile  lips;  heard  the  odd  music  of  her  voice,  with 
its  delicious  ^^he's^^  and  ^^my  deafs^^;  felt  the  whole 

33 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


captivating  abandon  of  her  demeanour,  the  idolatry 
of  her  regard,  and  the  delirious,  siren-like  spell  of 
her  invitation. 

Philip  picked  up  the  hat,  which  he  had  laid  beside 
him  on  the  seat,  and  looked  at  it  intently.  He  won- 
dered why  he  had  consented  to  accept  it,  in  view  of 
the  thing  it  clearly  implied:  that  he  would  return. 
He  could  not  quite  have  recognized  it  at  the  moment. 
Yes,  he  had  recognized  it ;  he  had  known  perfectly 
well  what  he  was  doing ;  the  fact  was,  he  had  not 
had  the  will  to  refuse.  There  had  been  something 
automatic,  trance-like,  about  the  whole  operation. 
Yet  at  no  time  had  he  really  intended  to  go  back. 

Fortunately  there  were  other  means  of  returning 
the  articles  than  carrying  them  in  person.  He  won- 
dered whether  she  would  be  surprised  that  night  when 
he  did  not  come.  He  had  given  no  promise.  On  the 
contrary,  though  he  had  said  nothing,  his  fantastic 
exit  would  certainly  have  indicated  a  clear  refusal. 

And  it  suddenly  came  over  him  that  it  must  have 
seemed  very  absurd  to  her — that  vehement  outbreak 
of  Puritanical  virtue  in  him,  the  sincerity  of  which  was 
practically  belied  by  his  demonstrative  farewell.  No 
doubt  she  had  enjoyed  a  good  laugh  over  it  after  he 
had  disappeared,  or  perhaps  pondered,  with  that 
sphinx-like  smile  of  hers,  on  the  weakness  of  a  certain 
type  of  man  that  desired  what  other  men  desired,  yet 
lacked  the  courage  to  enact  the  desire.  What  else 

34 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


indeed  could  scruples  mean  to  her  than  mere  con- 
ventionality and  cowardice  ? 

A  shiver  passed  over  him  as  he  suddenly  became 
aware  of  the  insidious  quality  of  the  reverie  upon  which 
his  emotions  had  launched  him.  He  must  shake  it  off. 
He  felt  in  his  pocket  for  his  pipe,  intending  to  fill  it 
and  continue  his  walk  southward  through  the  Park; 
but  as  he  did  so,  his  hand  encountered  an  envelope ; 
and  with  a  start  he  remembered  that  it  was  a  letter 
from  Georgia  Raebum.  The  postman  had  handed  it 
to  him  just  as  he  was  quitting  his  lodgings  that  after- 
noon, and  he  had  saved  it  to  read  at  leisure  in  this 
very  spot. 

He  drew  it  out,  studied  the  superscription  for  a 
moment,  opened  it  with  his  penknife,  inhaled  the  deli- 
cate perfume  of  the  faintly  tinted  pages,  and  began  to 
read.  .  .  . 

Five  minutes  later  he  still  sat  there,  as  in  a  stupor, 
his  eyes  fixed  absently  before  him,  regarding  nothing, 
the  letter  held  listlessly  on  one  knee. 

Well,  they  were  not  coming  home,  after  all. 

The  Colonel  was  worse.  The  doctors  advised  them 
to  spend  the  winter  in  one  of  the  cottages  near  the 
sanatorium.  They  would  probably  do  so.  She  won- 
dered whether  he  would  still  plan  to  go  up  to  the 
country  for  Thanksgiving.  She  would  be  thinking 
of  him.  ... 

35 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Thinking  of  him.  .  .  .  Thinking  of  him!  .  .  . 
Much  good  that  would  do !  .  .  . 

A  bitter,  choking  resentment  surged  up  in  him 
against  the  fate  that  held  her  away,  just  at  the  time 
when  most  of  all  he  needed  her,  when  most  he  had 
counted  upon  her  to  save  him.  The  mockery  of  it! 
What  use  was  there  in  keeping  up  the  thankless,  hate- 
ful struggle  any  longer,  when  this  was  the  reward ! 

He  had  never  felt  so  wretchedly  lonely  before.  He 
saw  the  winter  stretching  ahead,  dull,  grinding, 
monotonous,  utterly  barren.  He  was  young;  he  was 
full  of  Hfe;  his  whole  being  ached  for  pleasure.  It 
came  blindly  over  him  that  he  had  a  right  to  it.  What 
would  it  signify  in  the  end  whether  he  had  slaked  his 
thirst  now  and  again  at  forbidden  fountains?  Ka- 
trinka  had  invited  him  to  come  back.  She  would  be 
waiting.  .  .  . 

The  trees  were  dancing  before  his  vision.  With  a 
sudden  horror  of  the  step  made  so  easy  for  him  and 
which  he  seemed  to  feel  he  was  destined  to  take, 
sooner  or  later,  whether  he  would  or  no  —  Why  not 
sooner,  since  things  had  turned  out  this  way  ?  —  why 
not  ?  —  why  not  ?  —  He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  set  off 
at  a  determined  pace  across  the  Park. 

He  told  himself  that  he  was  going  to  fight  off  the 
temptation;  that  nothing  in  heaven  or  earth  would 
make  him  yield  to  it. 


IV 

In  the  kitchen  of  the  old  brick  house  on  Mullin 
Street,  where  Philip  Wetherell  had  lodgings,  matters 
had  come  to  a  very  bad  pass,  indeed.  Victorine  stood, 
immensely  agitated,  before  her  glowing  range,  the 
ruddy  gleams  from  which,  as  she  thrust  her  poker 
vindictively  through  the  bars  of  the  grate,  served 
to  heighten  the  already  high  colour  of  her  broad 
features. 

"Ah,  and  is  it  not  always  like  that  nowadays!'' 
she  declared.  "I  tell  you  he  cannot  be  trusted  any 
longer  to  do  one  little  errand." 

There  was  a  sigh,  slight  as  a  breath  of  wind  through 
a  key-hole,  from  a  comer  of  the  room  where  the  low- 
burning  gas-jet  failed  to  penetrate  clearly. 

"And  what  am  I  to  do  now,  will  you  tell  me?"  went 
on  Victorine,  putting  down  the  poker  noisily,  and  turn- 
ing with  arms  defiantly  akimbo  toward  her  invisible 
auditor.  "What  will  become  of  the  dinner?  Does  he 
want  to  ruin  it,  — the  papa  Victor?  What  will  one 
do  with  a  fish  when  he  is  cooked  already  and  must 
wait,  wait,  wait  for  his  sauce  ?  No  mustard,  no  sauce ; 
no  sauce,  no  fish ! "  She  spread  her  capable  arms  with 
a  gesture  of  tragic  finality.  "And  Jenny  is  having 
guests  to-night!" 

37 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


A  thin,  cricket-like  voice  came  with  feeble  protest 
out  of  the  obscurity. 

"Patience,  a  little  patience,  my  Victorine.  The 
papa  is  old;  you  must  remember  he  cannot  march 
like  one  time.  Perhaps  he  need  a  little  rest  some 
place." 

Victorine  gave  a  skeptical  hunch  to  her  stocky 
shoulders.  "Some  place!"  she  grunted.  "Yes,  al- 
ways some  place !  It  is  not  enough  to  sit  all  day  by 
the  fire ;  but  when  he  go  for  a  little  box  mustard  he 
must  stop  some  place  for  a  rest.  Say,  do  I  ever  deny 
him  his  little  glass  cognac  when  he  come  home  tired  ? 
Was  ever  a  daughter  more  devoted  than  me?  No. 
Yet  always  he  will  be  stopping  at  that  some  place.  — 
Well,  the  fish  will  be  ruined." 

There  was  high  tragedy  in  the  set  of  her  heavy  brow. 

"It  is  not  your  fault,  petite,"  came  the  cricket-voice, 
soothingly.  "We  must  be  patient  wuth  these  men. 
Life  is  full  of  troubles." 

A  step  was  heard  outside  the  basement  grill. 

"Ah,  there  he  comes!"  cried  Victorine.  Her  face 
cleared;  then  fell  again.  "No,  it  is  not  the  papa's 
step.  Who  then?" 

She  listened  anxiously. 

A  familiar  voice  called  her.  "May  I  come  in, 
mademoiselle?" 

"Oh,  it  is  Monsieur  PhiUppe,"  she  exclaimed. — 
"Yes,  monsieur.  The  gate  is  not  latched.  Come  in." 

38 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


She  hastily  mopped  her  face  with  her  apron,  gave 
a  straightening  touch  to  her  small  knob  of  hair,  and 
turned  up  the  gas-jet.  The  gate  squeaked  and  slammed 
to,  and  an  instant  later  Wetherell  entered  the  kitchen. 
The  colour  in  his  cheeks  was  high. 

"Good-evening,  mademoiselle.  —  Good-evening, 
madame."  He  turned  to  the  comer  where  a  tiny, 
white-coiffed  old  woman  was  discovered,  deep  in  the 
recesses  of  a  padded  arm-chair.  "How  is  the  old 
maman  to-night?  And  where  is  the  papa  Victor?" 

He  had  the  manner  of  being  quite  at  home  in  this 
savoury-smelling  apartment. 

"Oh,  for  him!"  replied  Victorine,  with  scornful 
lightness,  "he  is  taking  his  little  glass  some  place. 
All  a  half-hour  ago  he  went  to  the  comer  for  some 
mustard.    He  does  not  care  if  the  dinner  is  ruined." 

"  It  does  n't  smell  mined,"  observed  Philip,  seating 
himself  in  the  papa's  chair  at  one  side  of  the  range. 
"It  smells  like  a  cuHnary  masterpiece.  Some  day  you 
will  be  worshipped  as  goddess  of  the  cuisine,  made- 
moiselle." 

One  would  have  said  that  the  contriver  of  this 
compliment  must  have  some  object  in  view.  He  had, 
indeed,  the  look  of  wanting  to  say  something  more,  if 
only  the  opening  would  offer  itself. 

But  Victorine's  temper  was  not  greatly  mollified. 
"Oh,  it  would  not  be  too  bad,  I  dare  say,  if  it  must 
not  wait,  wait  till  the  end  of  the  world.    It  is  a  dis- 

39 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


grace,  the  way  he  has  deserted  me,  and  him  a  cook 
too,  by  profession,  and  the  inventor  of  the  famous 
Sauce  of  the  Cafe  Antoine!" 

"Come,"  proposed  Philip,  in  a  voice  that  was  in- 
tended to  be  bold,  but  seemed  all  the  more  shy  on 
that  account ;  "I  will  make  a  bargain  with  you,  made- 
moiselle. I  will  go  for  the  mustard  myself.  I  will  find 
the  papa  and  bring  him  home.  Everything  will  be 
saved." 

Victorine  clasped  her  stout  hands. 

"Oh,  monsieur!  You  are  too  obliging.  Oh,  I  could 
never  have  the  heart  to  permit  you !  I  would  go  my- 
self, you  understand,  only  I  dare  not  leave  my  kitchen 
at  this  moment.  The  dinner  requires  to  be  looked 
after  incessantly." 

"Ah,  but  this  is  a  bargain  I  am  proposing,"  he  pro- 
tested with  a  laugh  of  some  embarrassment.  "I  am 
not  generous.   I  demand  my  pay.   Do  you  agree?" 

She  gave  him  a  look  in  which  a  consuming  desire 
for  a  box  of  mustard  struggled  with  a  sudden  mis- 
giving. 

"Surely,  monsieur,  it's  not  another  of  those  sick 
dogs!" 

Philip  opened  his  coat  with  a  half-defiant,  half- 
apologetic  smile,  and  bent  his  head  solicitously  over 
a  small  bundle  of  grey  fur. 

"It  is!   It  is!"   ejaculated  Victorine,  despairingly. 

"No,  mademoiselle,  it  is  not.  See!"  —  he  drew 
40 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


it  out  tenderly.  "It's  only  a  little  cat. — A  poor, 
harmless  little  innocent  of  a  cat!" 

"A  cat!  Oh,  my  God,  what  a  horror!"  she  cried, 
throwing  up  defensive  hands.  "But  it  is  impossible, 
monsieur.  You  promised  me  —  have  you  forgotten 
then  ?  —  that  a  dog  and  a  pigeon  would  be  all.  And 
now  we  must  have  a  cat!  Never!  Ney-vairT^ 

He  gave  her  a  look  of  urgent  supplication.  "I  know 
it's  not  very  clean,"  he  admitted,  in  the  most  ingrati- 
ating of  voices.  "  I  would  n't  have  brought  it,  honestly, 
only  one  leg  seems  to  have  been  broken  somehow, 
and  I  thought  I  ought  not  to  miss  this  chance  to  see 
if  I  could  splint  it  successfully.  There  were  some  boys 
throwing  pieces  of  brick  at  it." 

"The  world  is  too  full  of  cats,"  asseverated  Vic- 
torine,  crisply.  She  tested  a  boiling  potato  with  a 
long  fork ;  then  clapped  the  cover  noisily  on  the  pot. 

He  gave  her  a  reproachful  look  which  the  steam 
absorbed  before  it  reached  her.  "See,  mademoiselle, 
when  it  is  washed  up,  and  has  a  nice  white  ribbon 
round  its  neck,  it  will  not  look  so  bad.  It  will  be 
quite  pretty,  in  a  way,  quite  chic.  You  wouldn't 
mind  very  much,  surely,  would  you?" 

There  was  a  sharp  ring  at  the  upstairs  door-bell. 

"Those  are  Jenny's  guests,"  gasped  the  woman. 
"No  mustard !  No  mustard !"  She  wrung  her  hands 
dramatically. 

"I  am  going  for  it,"  said  Philip,  seizing  his  advan- 
41 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


tage.  "See,  I  will  leave  the  kitten  in  the  papa  Victor's 
chair.  What  shop  do  you  get  it  at?" 

"The  little  delicatessen,  monsieur,  just  around  the 
comer.  Oh,  you  are  kind !  —  And  if  you  see  the  old 
papa  some  place,  tell  him  he  has  perfectly  ruined  the 
fish!" 

The  young  man,  stooping  over  his  little  foundling, 
gave  it  a  monitory  pat  or  two,  to  impress  it  with  the 
need  of  good  behaviour.  "I'll  be  back  in  three  min- 
utes," he  promised,  and  made  a  hasty  exit  from  the 
kitchen. 

Victorine  busied  herself  noisily  at  the  stove.  "What 
a  man!  What  a  man!"  she  exclaimed,  disgust  and 
admiration  vying  in  her  tone.  "  Can  any  one  say  what 
he  will  bring  into  this  house  next  ?  —  A  monkey,  I 
wouldn't  be  surprise'!" 

"Torine,  ma  fille,  you  are  too  impatient,"  chirped 
the  old  woman,  who  till  now  had  taken  no  part  in 
the  argument.  "You  must  expect  a  little  trouble  in 
this  world.  No  one  pretends  that  life  is  easy  for  us 
women." 

Victorine  did  not  think  it  necessary  either  to  agree 
or  to  disagree  with  this  favourite  sentiment  of  the 
maman  Susanne's,  but  continued  her  monologue,  as 
she  stirred  the  potage,  tasted  it,  and  added  an  extra 
shake  of  cayenne. 

"First  a  pigeon  with  a  torn  wing;  then  a  dog  with 
one  ear  bitten  off  in  a  fight  —  oh,  such  a  dog !  a 

42 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


veritable  disgrace,  in  God's  name! — and  now" — she 
turned  accusingly  on  the  newcomer,  and  her  voice 
rose  to  a  desperate  pitch  —  ^^you  /" 

The  kitten  was  busily  licking  its  injured  member, 
and  only  paused  to  give  her  a  look  of  grave  inquiry. 
Victorine  bent  a  little  closer  to  examine  its  appear- 
ance, her  nose  knotted  with  disgust. 

"You  are  im-pos-seeble!''  she  announced,  finally, 
with  three  Rhadamanthine  shakes  of  the  head,  each 
more  terrible  than  the  last. 

"Monsieur  Philippe  is  a  very  nice  young  man,  — 
tres  gentil,"  put  in  the  tiny  voice,  faintly. 

"Oh,  I  do  not  say  he  is  too  bad,"  consented  the 
younger  woman,  guardedly.  "He  has  not  the  abomi- 
nable habits  of  some  young  men.  He  never  has  a  dozen 
companions  in  his  room  at  night  to  sing  and  get  drunk 
and  smash  the  furniture  like  that  monster  who  had  the 
mansarde  last  summer.  He  always  brings  his  rent 
every  two  weeks." 

"Ah,  but  that  is  something,  Torine,"  observed 
Mother  Susanne,  deeply,  "in  a  world  like  ours,  where 
so  many  never  pay  rent  at  all.  Yes,  my  Torine,  that 
is  something  in  this  world." 

There  was  a  rattle  at  the  gate-latch,  and  the  sound 
of  voices. 

"The  mustard!"  ejaculated  Victorine,  making 
ambling  speed  out  of  the  room. 

"The  papa!"  piped  the  shrivelled  little  creature  in 
43 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


the  white  Norman  coiffe,  pressing  her  gnarled  hands 
together. 

Philip  reentered  the  kitchen  before  the  others, 
gathered  up  his  new  charge  with  eager  tenderness, 
and  waited  for  the  verdict. 

Mademoiselle  followed  closely.  "Yes,  it  is  the 
right  species,"  she  declared.  "The  dinner  may  be 
rescued  yet."  Already  she  had  pried  open  the  yellow 
box  and  was  measuring  out  the  precious  powder. 
"You  are  very  kind,  monsieur." 

"And  the  cat  may  stay?" 

Victorine  was  strangely  absorbed  in  her  culinary 
duties,  and  vouchsafed  no  answer.  Philip  finally 
repeated  his  question. 

"And  the  cat  may  stay,  mademoiselle?" 

She  did  not  look  at  him.  "One  night,  monsieur." 
The  words  seemed  to  have  been  forcefully  jerked 
out  of  her.  "Put  a  little  box  in  the  rear  basement. 
That  is  our  hospital  nowadays." 

Taking  advantage  of  the  entrance  at  this  moment 
of  the  papa  Victor,  Philip  hastily  left  the  kitchen, 
and  made  his  way  to  the  extension  basement.  As  he 
opened  the  door,  One-Ear  bounded  to  meet  him  with 
a  yelp  of  impish  pleasure.  No,  you  could  not  much 
blame  Victorine  La  Bergere  for  not  being  drawn  to 
her  lodger's  pets.  One-Ear  was  a  rakehell  cur. 
Worse  than  that,  he  took  a  shameless  satisfaction  in 
being  one.    A  runaway  kinetoscope  could  not  have 

44 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


attributed  him  with  a  greater  number  of  grotesque 
poses  per  minute  than  he  was  capable  of  assuming, 
by  the  aid  of  his  squat  legs,  impudent,  bristly  tail,  long 
neck,  and  solitary  auricular  appendage. 

But  to-night,  instead  of  the  customary  romp,  for 
which  he  was  ready,  he  heard  himself  peremptorily 
ordered  to  his  box,  and  with  tail  suddenly  limp,  ren- 
dered obedience.  Philip  did  not  wish  to  be  inter- 
rupted in  the  surgical  attentions  which  he  was  about 
to  administer  to  the  kitten's  leg.  He  whittled  some 
splints ;  he  brought  hot  water,  soap,  and  rags,  and  for 
the  next  hour  was  completely  absorbed  in  his  under- 
taking, quite  forgetting  that  he  had  had  no  dinner, 
forgetting  indeed  for  the  time  being  that  the  world 
offered  any  more  serious  problem  than  that  of  secur- 
ing night's  lodgings  for  abandoned  cats  from  recal- 
citrant landladies. 

With  Mademoiselle  Victorine,  as  may  readily  be 
inferred,  his  difficulties  had  already  been  pronounced, 
though  by  the  employment  of  assiduous  tact,  flattery, 
bribery,  and  persuasiveness,  he  had  so  far  won  her 
consent  to  his  projects. 

"But,  monsieur,"  she  had  said  to  him  one  day, 
with  a  supercilious  gesture,  "but,  monsieur,  you  have 
the  heart  of  a  young  girl.   It  is  an  absurdity!" 

Philip  had  flushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  had  replied,  defiantly.  "You  do 
not  understand,  mademoiselle.    My  interest  in  these 

45 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


things  is  scientific.  I  watch  the  healing  of  wounds, 
the  knitting  of  broken  bones,  with  the  most  profound 
attention.  What  reason  should  I  have,  pray,  for  want- 
ing to  keep  a  dirty  little  beast  around,  if  it  were  not 
that  each  case  presents  some  new  problem?" 

Victorine  grunted  skeptically.  "You  are  a  scien- 
tist?'' she  asked,  with  a  masterful  innuendo. 

"Not  by  profession,"  replied  Philip.  "But  science 
has  always  been  one  of  my  greatest  interests." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Mademoiselle  La  Berg^re, 
"you  should  be  dear,  dear  friends  with  that  tall, 
silent  Monsieur  Barry  who  has  the  room  next  to  you. 
Every  night  he  is  at  work,  sometimes  till  one  o'clock, 
over  his  microscope.  You  must  tell  him  about  your 
science." 

Victorine  could  be  magnificent,  when  the  mood 
was  on  her.  Philip  shuddered  at  the  approach  of  the 
day,  certainly  not  far  ahead,  when  all  his  arts  would 
not  avail  to  extract  another  favour  from  her  crisply 
shut  Hps.  He  resolved,  indeed,  that  he  would  save 
himself  from  the  mortification  of  a  refusal.  This 
would  be  his  last  folly. 

After  the  new  charge  had  been  fed  with  warm  milk 
and  put  to  bed  in  a  small  carpeted  box  next  to  the 
furnace,  Philip  stopped  to  have  a  little  talk  with  One- 
Ear,  who  cocked  his  evil  head  on  one  side  like  a  bat- 
tered gargoyle  and  raised  such  a  bedlam  of  barks 
that  he  had  to  be  sent  back  into  retirement  for  fear  of 

46 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


disturbing  the  household.  Then  he  shut  the  door  of 
the  rear  basement  and  ran  up  to  his  room. 

Before  he  had  reached  the  top  of  the  second  flight, 
he  remembered  the  problem  that  had  been  sleeping 
in  the  back  of  his  mind  for  almost  two  hours.  In  the 
interval  it  seemed  only  to  have  gained  a  fiery  intensity 
of  life.  It  was  not  to  be  put  out  of  his  head  by  merely 
declaring  that  it  had  been  already  decided.  It  had 
not  been  decided,  nor  would  it  be  so  long  as  alter- 
native lines  of  action  were  open  to  him.  What  was 
he  going  to  do  ? 

At  this  moment  he  found  it  possible  to  say  to  him- 
self that  he  was  going  to  stay  quietly  at  home  with  a 
book.  It  came  to  him  that  it  would  be  pleasant  to 
run  downstairs  every  hour  or  so  to  have  a  look  at 
Cassee,  —  he  had  chosen  the  name  because  of  the 
broken  leg,  —  and  something  warm  and  tender  that 
had  stirred  at  his  heart  had  appeased,  to  a  certain 
extent,  the  loneliness  and  hunger  that  had  preyed 
upon  him  that  afternoon.  He  would  read  for  a  while ; 
and  then  he  would  write  a  letter  to  Georgia,  telling 
her  as  many  amusing  things  as  he  could.  —  Why 
had  n't  she  been  sorrier,  he  wondered,  at  giving  up 
the  home  trip?  Probably  because  she  was  so  ab- 
sorbed in  her  father's  troubles  that  she  had  not  had 
much  time  to  think  about  the  other  thing.  Yet  it 
seemed  as  if  she  might  have  said  a  little  more,  if  only 
for  his  sake,  for  she  must  have  known  that  to  him, 

47 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


at  least,  it  would  be  a  terrible  disappointment.  — 
But  perhaps  she  had  not  thought  of  that,  either. 

Arrived  in  his  snug  little  mansarde,  he  lighted  his 
green-shaded  lamp,  stirred  up  the  fire  in  the  Frank- 
lin stove,  donned  bath-robe  and  slippers,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  assemble  from  closet  and  chiffonier  the  es- 
sentials of  a  very  simple  repast.  He  told  himself  that 
he  was  not  going  to  take  the  trouble  to  go  out  to  a 
restaurant  to-night. 

That  is  what  he  told  himself.  In  reality  he  was  obey- 
ing a  precautionary  instinct.  Without  acknowledging 
it  to  himself,  he  had  a  vivid  sense  of  the  instability 
of  his  present  mood,  and  he  wanted  to  guard  it  in 
every  way  he  could.  For  deepest  of  all  his  desires  — 
and  he  knew  it  —  was  the  desire  to  be  loyal  to  the  best 
that  was  in  him.  So  slight  a  thing  as  the  thought  of 
the  little  sick  cat  in  the  box  by  the  furnace,  if  he 
could  only  hold  it  in  his  mind,  might  be  enough  to 
carry  him  through  the  ordeal  of  these  next  two 
hours. 

But  he  by  no  means  said  all  this  to  himself.  He 
did  not  pose  in  his  own  eyes  as  a  St.  Anthony.  He 
did  not  look  for  melodramatic  elements  in  the  situa- 
tion. He  was  as  healthy-minded  as  most  healthy 
young  men ;  not  in  the  least  given  to  pr)dng  into  the 
recesses  of  his  own  mind.  But  he  knew  that  there 
was  a  seething  flood  of  dangerous  desire  within  him, 
and  that  it  might  boil  up  at  any  moment  and  over- 

48 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


whelm  him.  Instinctively  he  grasped  at  whatever 
seemed  to  promise  security. 

Having  finished  his  meagre  supper,  he  took  up  a 
treatise  on  Reinforced  Concrete  Construction,  found 
his  place  in  it,  and  set  himself  earnestly  to  read. 

The  attempt  was  a  failure.  For  a  few  minutes, 
while  he  forced  his  attention  resolutely  on  the  scent, 
he  could  follow  the  author's  exposition ;  then  insen- 
sibly, without  being  aware  of  the  relaxing  process, 
he  would  be  merely  reading  the  words  with  his  eye, 
grasping  nothing  of  the  ideas  behind  them.  When  he 
recognized  what  had  occurred,  he  would  conscien- 
tiously go  back  to  the  point  of  wandering  and  begin 
afresh.  But  it  was  no  use.  He  grew  more  and  more 
out  of  patience  with  himself,  and  at  last,  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  disgust,  flung  the  book  across  the  room 
at  a  pile  of  couch-cushions. 

Next  he  drew  out  a  sheet  of  writing  paper,  and  with 
great  precision  penned  the  date ;  then  sat  impotently 
before  the  white  sheet  for  ten  minutes,  without  an 
idea  in  his  head,  biting  the  end  of  his  pen.  At  last  he 
tore  the  thing  angrily  to  pieces ;  threw  off  his  lounging 
robe,  and  got  out  his  drawing-board,  upon  which  he 
had  a  partly  traced  elevation  of  the  design  he  meant 
to  enter  in  the  Terra  Cotta  Competition.  At  least, 
he  said  to  himself,  he  could  ink.  That  did  not  re- 
quire thought:  merely  mechanical  dexterity  and 
patience. 

49 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


For  twenty  minutes  he  worked  furiously  and  with- 
out a  moment's  relaxation,  his  lips  pressed  white 
together,  his  feet  drumming  nervously  on  the  floor. 
He  heard  a  clock  downstairs  buzzing  for  the  hour,  and 
counted  the  strokes  as  they  tinkled  briskly  into  the 
silence.   Eight. 

Eight !  He  dropped  his  pen  and  stared  blankly  at 
the  opposite  wall. 

Just  now  she  was  beginning  to  expect  him.  He 
could  see  the  glittering,  luxurious  apartment,  fragrant, 
inviting  abandon;  and  her,  the  elusive,  bewildering, 
irresistible  spirit  of  it,  sitting  in  the  deep  chair  by  the 
hearth,  her  little  feet  drawn  up  under  her,  her  dream- 
like hair  ruddy  in  the  glow  of  the  fire.  .  .  . 

He  set  his  teeth  into  his  lips  till  they  hurt,  and  bent 
more  fiercely  than  ever  over  his  drawing-board.  He 
felt  himself  slipping,  slipping,  —  as  if  an  invisible,  re- 
sistless net  had  fallen  about  him,  and  were  drawing 
him  off  his  feet.  Was  this  the  end  of  the  struggle  ?  he 
asked  himself.  Was  this  the  final  subjugation  of  the 
spirit  in  him  ?  His  brain  seemed  to  be  growing  numb. 

A  knock  at  the  door  startled  him  almost  out  of  his 
chair,  and  he  had  only  time  to  recover  a  semblance 
of  composure,  before  his  gaunt  fellow-lodger,  John 
Barry,  entered  the  room. 


Although  for  six  weeks  the  two  men  had  occupied 
adjoining  rooms,  this  was  the  first  time  they  had  in- 
terchanged more  than  a  perfunctory  word  of  greeting 
on  the  stairs  or  at  the  door.  There  was  something 
in  the  mien  of  the  older  man  that  discouraged  ad- 
vances,— a  certain  defiance,  if  not  contemptuousness, 
in  the  carriage  of  the  head,  the  slight  dilation  of  the 
nostril,  and  the  habitual  curl  of  the  thin  lip  under  its 
sparse,  discoloured  beard. 

"Won't  you  have  a  chair?"  asked  Philip,  some- 
what at  a  loss  for  his  visitor's  business. 

"Thank  you,"  repUed  Barry,  with  a  negative 
gesture  of  his  lean,  long-fingered  hand.  "I  came  in 
only  to  inquire  whether  you  possessed  such  a  com- 
modity as  a  bottle  of  India  Ink.  My  own  seems  to 
have  run  dry.  —  Ah,  but  I  see  you  are  doing  some 
drawing,  yourself."  He  made  a  movement.to  go.  "I 
trust  you  will  pardon  my  interruption." 

There  was  precision  about  the  man's  language 
that  contrasted  oddly  with  his  negligent,  threadbare 
clothes,  soiled  collar,  and  unkempt  hair  and  beard. 

"Hold  on,"  cried  PhiUp.  "I'm  only  fiddling.  I  don't 
care  when  I  do  this.  I  wish  you'd  take  the  ink." 

"You  call  that  fiddling,  eh?"  asked  the  other,  ap- 

51 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


preaching  the  desk  with  interest.  "It  looks  very  much 
like  work  to  me,  —  workmanly  work,  too,"  he  added, 
taking  a  puff  at  his  black  stogie,  ''if  I  may  presume 
to  an  opinion  without  knowing  anything  of  the  sub- 
ject." He  surveyed  the  elevation  intently.  ''Is  it  a 
practical  design?" 

"No,"  answered  Philip,  more  gratified  than  he 
could  account  for  by  the  man's  appreciation.  "At 
least  not  specifically  so.  Expense  is  not  a  factor  in 
the  problem.  The  aim  is  merely  to  illustrate  the 
architectural  possibilities  of  terra  cotta.  My  idea  is 
to  confine  colour  and  ornament  to  the  apertures,  the 
frieze,  and  the  cornice  —  you  see  ?  —  here,  and  here. 
The  larger  surfaces  are  left  entirely  plain." 

Following  the  lead  of  an  intelligent  question  or  two, 
he  embarked  upon  an  absorbed  discussion  of  the 
design.  Before  he  had  done,  he  had  brought  out  the 
whole  series  of  tracings  and  explained  them  with 
fevered  volubility  and  enthusiasm.  It  was  not  cus- 
tomary for  him  to  talk  like  this.  He  wondered  at  it 
himself  as  he  heard  the  words  come  and  recognized 
in  his  voice  an  odd  dry  heightening  of  its  usual  pitch. 

"No,  a  considerable  number  of  the  features  are  de- 
liberate adaptations,"  he  proffered,  in  answer  to  a 
question  of  his  guest's.  "For  example,  that  treatment 
of  the  window  cornice,  —  see,  it's  virtually  the  same 
motif  as  in  this  Municipal  Palace  of  Perugia." 

He  opened  a  sketch-book  that  lay  on  the  table,  and 

52 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


exhibited  a  pencil  study  of  the  decoration  in  ques- 
tion. The  record  had  evidently  been  made  rather 
hastily;  but  there  was  a  sure  intellectual  tact  in  the 
rendering  that  could  not  be  mistaken.  Equally  char- 
acteristic of  the  artist's  temper  was  the  running  ac- 
companiment of  thumb-nail  sketches,  remarques,  that 
filled  in  every  comer  of  his  book,  —  here  a  woman 
with  a  jar  of  water  on  her  shoulders,  the  vigorous 
movement  of  her  limbs  revealed  with  almost  uncanny 
dexterity  by  a  few  drapery  lines ;  there  a  young  girl 
with  a  large,  flat  basket  of  flowers ;  again  an  old  man, 
double-bent  over  a  heavy  stick  and  accompanied  by  a 
droop-tail  dog ;  crowded  into  a  lower  comer,  a  scrawny 
goat  drinking  out  of  a  richly  sculptured  fountain. 

"You  have  a  rare  talent  for  all  that,"  said  Barry, 
with  the  first  smile  Philip  had  ever  seen  on  his  haughty 
face. 

The  young  man  was  too  thoroughly  the  artist  to 
have  recourse  to  any  false  modesty. 

*' Yes,"  he  admitted,  frankly.  "I  have.  And  I  take 
an  uncommon  amount  of  pleasure  in  it." 

"But  you  like  your  architecture  better?"  said 
Barry. 

The  dark  eyes  of  his  companion  glowed  with  en- 
thusiasm. "It's  the  biggest,  superbest  thing  in  the 
world!"  he  declared.  "But  it  tests  a  man  out  relent- 
lessly. I  have  n't  yet  proved  myself.  All  I  have  so 
far  is  my  ambition." 

S3 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


The  older  man  turned  a  penetrating  scrutiny  upon 
him,  but  made  no  comment. 

*^I  must  not  impose  further  on  your  patience/'  he 
broke  off.  "I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  fetch  my 
ink  bottle  and  half  fill  it  from  yours,  if  that's  agree- 
able to  you." 

He  left  the  room  for  a  moment.  Philip  caught  out 
his  watch  and  stared  at  it.  Only  twenty  minutes  after 
eight!  He  thought  he  had  been  talking  an  hour. 
There  was  a  seething  tumult  through  his  whole  being 
that  made  utterly  impossible  the  thought  of  further 
work  that  night.  What  was  he  going  to  do?  What 
was  he  going  to  do  ? 

"I  had  a  few  little  histological  diagrams  I  was 
anxious  to  get  completed,"  explained  Barry,  reen- 
tering. "This  is  a  genuine  accommodation  on  your 
part." 

Philip  took  the  bottle  from  him;  but  in  filling  it 
from  his  own  his  hand  shook  so  violently  that  some 
of  the  ink  was  spilled. 

"That's  abominable!"  he  exclaimed,  in  dismay. 
"I'm  downright  mortified." 

Barry  fastened  steady,  deep-seeing  eyes  upon  his 
face.  "I  observe,"  he  remarked,  quietly,  "that  you 
are  a  very  tired  and  distraught  young  man." 

"I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me,"  said 
Philip,  stupidly. 

"You  can't  bum  the  candle  at  both  ends,"  com- 

54 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


merited  Barry,  wiping  the  bottle  on  the  lining  of  his 
ragged  coat.  "A  young  man  like  you  needs  relaxa- 
tion. Take  my  word  for  it,  you  won't  achieve  that 
ambition  of  yours  any  the  quicker  for  trying  to 
achieve  it  too  quick." 

"You  may  be  right,"  consented  his  auditor.  "I 
had  the  feeling  that  I  ought  to  stick  to  it  to-night." 

"Ought!  Ought!"  echoed  the  older  man  with  a 
harsh  laugh.  "Where  did  you  learn  that  word,  pray? 
Are  you  from  New  England?" 

"Yes;  all  my  ancestry  is  New  England,"  rejoined 
Philip.  "I'm  proud  of  it." 

"Be  as  proud  of  it  as  you  like,  young  man;  but 
don't  let  your  precious  inheritance  of  oughts  be  the 
wreck  of  you.  Did  n't  you  say  just  now  that  your  am- 
bition was  the  biggest  thing  in  your  life  ?" 

His  listener  nodded,  dully. 

"Well,  then,  there's  conscience  enough  for  you. 
Don't  worship  a  fetich.  Do  you  keep  your  old  New 
England  religion?" 

"No,  not  most  of  it." 

"You've  freed  yourself  from  the  letter  of  it :  that^s 
all.  The  chains  of  its  hell-fire  code  are  still  on  you. 
They  hamper  you  all  the  time.  You  haven't  the 
courage  to  live  up  to  your  ambition  and  to  let  that 
become  your  morality.  Did  you  ever  make  excur- 
sions into  natural  science?" 

"Very  little  into  the  philosophy  of  the  thing." 

55 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"It  might  have  been  a  good  antidote  for  some  of 
these  moral  superstitions." 

The  man's  voice  had  an  almost  wounding  caus- 
ticity. "  Go  to  Nature  for  your  moral  code,  and  she  '11 
offer  you  one  that  has  its  foundations  on  rock-bottom 
facts.  It  may  not  be  dainty  or  poetic.  —  Shocking, 
perhaps,  to  the  delicate  sensibilities  of  the  moral  sen- 
timentalists. But  sound ;  verifiable ;  and  if  your  eyes 
are  opened  you  can  read  it  authoritatively  in  all  the 
operations  of  human  society  to-day,  despite  the  pretty 
masks  and  disguises  that  philosophies  and  religions 
have  drawn  over  it.  Leave  philosophies  and  religions 
to  the  ignorant,  the  weak,  and  the  timid.  Concede 
them  their  world  of  illusions." 

Barry  was  speaking  with  the  fervour  of  a  prophet, 
his  proud  head  thrown  back,  a  sneer  of  bitterness 
and  disenchantment  on  his  sensitive  lips.  Philip  had 
not  in  the  least  been  prepared  for  such  an  outbreak. 
He  was  in  no  condition  to  criticize  the  man's  declara- 
tion of  unfaith,  or  to  take  issue  with  it.  He  could  not 
think.  He  felt  himself  swept  along  on  the  wave. 

"Nature  blessed  me  with  a  very  particular,  unusual, 
and  precious  birthright,"  declared  Barry,  with  a  jar- 
ring, metallic  laugh.  "And  in  return,  I  take  every 
opportunity  that  comes  to  me  to  preach  her  gospel. 
—  One  law,  one  gospel,  namely,  and  to  wit:  Get! 
operative  in  plant,  animal,  anthropoid,  and  homo 
sapiens." 

56 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


He  brought  his  two  hands  together  with  an  abrupt 
gesture  of  finaHty ;  then,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders 
that  might  have  been  a  shudder,  fastened  upon  his 
physiognomy  its  habitual  mask  of  restraint  and  hau- 
teur. 

"My  harangue  is  done  for  this  time,"  he  said. 
"Once  I  get  launched  it's  not  easy  to  stop  me." 

Philip  had  sunk  into  a  chair,  overcome  by  a  strange 
weakness.  There  was  not  a  ghost  of  protest  in  him. 
The  cynical  dogma  he  had  just  listened  to  was  terri- 
fyingly  welcome  at  this  moment ;  all  the  wild  desires 
of  his  nature,  struggling  in  their  leash,  shouted  and 
danced  as  they  felt  the  hand  that  had  checked  them 
slowly,  certainly  relaxing  its  control. 

"Don't  work  any  more  to-night,"  directed  Barry, 
sternly,  as  he  quitted  the  room.  "Your  New  Eng- 
land conscience  has  been  doing  its  best  to  strangle  you. 
Take  it  in  hand  while  there  is  yet  time.  And  if  you 
ever  want  any  more  of  the  New  Law  and  Prophets, 
come  to  me.  —  Good-night." 

Philip  continued  sitting  in  his  chair  after  his  guest 
had  departed,  staring  dully  at  the  closed  door.  Some- 
thing had  happened.  He  was  free,  —  free.  The  tor- 
menting struggle  within  him  had  subsided.  He  was 
only  dimly  conscious  that  time  was  passing.  A  de- 
licious, drug-like  lassitude  rippled  and  flowed  over  his 
senses. 

Finally,  with  a  start,  recollecting  himself,  he  drew 

57 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


out  his  watch  again.  Eight-forty!  He  would  be  late. 
But  what  of  that? 

Springing  to  his  feet,  he  hastily  slipped  off  his  busi- 
ness clothes  and  proceeded  to  don  a  scrupulous  even- 
ing costume.  At  three  minutes  to  nine  he  stood  be- 
fore the  glass,  administering  the  final  judicial  touches 
to  tie  and  hair.  Then  he  threw  on  his  muffler  and 
surtout,  set  his  opera  hat  over  his  crisp,  black  locks, 
and  took  his  gloves.  He  was  ready.  He  turned  down 
the  light  automatically,  opened  the  door,  and  had 
reached  the  head  of  the  stairs,  before  a  sudden,  ar- 
resting afterthought  struck  him. 

He  retraced  his  steps  hurriedly;  reached  up  his 
hand  to  the  key  of  the  chandelier ;  hesitated  a  second ; 
shivered;  extinguished  the  light;  and  once  more  left 
the  room. 


VI 

Because  she  had  noticed  that  he  loved  flowers, 
she  had  filled  the  room  with  luxuriant  ferns  and  jars 
of  rare  chrysanthemums  and  orchids  until,  under  the 
dim  illumination  of  its  opal-shaded  lamp,  it  resembled 
some  exotic  grotto,  touched  into  enchantment  by  the 
fitful,  ruddy  flashes  of  the  fire.  She  had  not  doubted 
his  coming.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  her 
invitation  might  be  rejected. 

She  was  accustomed  to  be  desired.  It  was  the  at- 
mosphere in  which  she  had  always  lived.  She  was 
accustomed  to  be  sought  after,  to  be  sued  by  every 
device  known  to  the  men  who  trade  in  love :  flattery, 
gold,  adoration,  jewels,  threats.  She  had  seen  men's 
faces  distorted  and  wolfish  with  the  hunger  of  love. 
And  now,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  was  waiting 
for  a  lover  who  did  not  come. 

When  the  Sevres  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  uttered 
its  soft,  unobtrusive  note  of  the  half-hour,  the  sound 
brought  dismay  into  her  heart. 

"Susan,"  she  called. 

The  domestic  appeared  at  the  door. 

"Please  telephone  to  the  Central,  like  a  good  girl, 
and  ask  for  the  exact  time."  Her  voice  had  the  leaden 
inexpressiveness  of  great  fatigue. 

59 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Nervously  rising  to  her  feet,  she  switched  on  a  sun- 
burst of  ceiling  lights,  crossed  the  room,  and  sur- 
veyed herself  critically  in  the  handsome  pier-glass 
that  was  placed  between  the  windows.  In  the  diffuse 
brilHance  of  the  artificial  light,  a  very  different  love- 
liness lay  upon  her  from  that  of  the  November  after- 
noon, yet  one  equally  strange  and  indicible.  The  low- 
cut  gown  of  filmy  frost-green  revealed  a  neck  and 
shoulders  of  alabaster  whiteness  and  whose  perfec- 
tion of  contour  was  enhanced  by  the  single  medallion 
of  limpid  beryl  that  hung  from  a  thread-like  chain 
and  half  concealed,  half  emphasized  the  delicious 
hollow  in  which  it  rested.  The  exquisite  outlines  of 
the  lips  had  been  more  clearly  defined  by  a  touch 
of  carmine ;  but  her  cheeks  still  retained  their  trans- 
parent, lustrous  pallor.  She  had  drawn  down  her  hair 
smoothly  over  her  ears,  and  fastened  it  in  a  low  knot 
at  the  nape  of  the  neck ;  and  about  it  she  had  bound, 
for  sole  ornament,  a  narrow  ribbon  of  green  velvet. 

With  leisurely,  dispassionate  attention  she  passed 
every  detail  of  her  toilette  in  review.   She  was  satisfied. 

"If  he  could  only  see  me  now!"  she  said  to  her- 
self ;  and  a  wave  of  longing  enveloped  her  that  made 
the  tears  start.  She  bent  intently  toward  the  mirror, 
until  her  face  almost  touched  the  reflection  of  itself. 

"You  are  beautiful,  my  dear.  You  are  beautiful, 
beautiful!'^  she  declared,  half  defiantly.  "Oh,  he 
must  come!" 

60 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


She  remembered  again  how  he  had  left  her;  and 
with  that  memory  she  tried  to  regain  her  assurance. 
It  was  only  some  delay !  It  could  not  be  that  he  would 
not  soon  arrive! 

Susan  reentered  the  room.  "It  is  twenty-five  min- 
utes to  ten,  madam,"  she  announced. 

"Ah,  then  the  clock  is  right,"  answered  Katrinka, 
mechanically,  while  her  hope  faded.  "I  do  not  know 
that  we  shall  need  the  supper.  Probably  not." 

"Shall  I  put  away  the  things  then?" 

"No.  Don't  put  away  the  things.  Not  quite  yet. 
Wait  just  a  few  minutes  more.  There  may  have  been 
some  mistake.  —  Oh  /" 

There  came  an  impetuous  ring  of  the  bell. 

"Let  him  in,  Susan." 

A  sudden  weakness  sent  her  to  the  mantelpiece 
for  support.  She  leant  upon  it  heavily  with  one  elbow, 
and  put  her  hand  with  a  quick  gesture  of  suffocation 
to  her  throat. 

The  next  instant  Wetherell  entered  the  room.  His 
face  was  set  and  bloodless;  but  his  eyes  burned. 

"Oh  — "  was  all  she  could  gasp.  —  "You  came!" 

He  darted  forward,  speechless,  and  caught  her 
in  his  arms,  while  his  lips  buried  themselves  in 
her  hair.  For  an  instant  she  abandoned  herself  to 
his  embrace;  then  she  liberated  herself,  and  stood 
back. 

"  Oh,  —  stop ! "  she  cried,  faintly. 
6i 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


With  damp  hands  clenched,  he  dropped  into  a  deep 
chair  before  the  fire. 

There  was  a  silence  of  some  duration,  while  each 
strove  to  regain  a  measure  of  composure.  Katrinka  was 
experiencing  what  was,  perhaps,  the  first  real  shyness 
of  her  life.  She  realized  that  she  had  triumphed ;  but 
a  flash  of  insight  had  been  vouchsafed  her  into  a  trag- 
edy that  appalled  her  spirit.  She  was  vaguely  aware 
that  the  moment  just  passed  stood  for  an  epoch  in 
the  life  of  the  man  she  had  so  lightly  enticed  thither, 
—  a  crucial  capitulation.  Forces  quite  beyond  her 
comprehension  had  battled  with  her  for  the  mastery. 
There  had  been  not  only  a  victory,  but  a  defeat  also. 

In  the  firelight  she  saw  the  beads  of  moisture  gleam 
redly  on  his  forehead,  while  he  sat  there  staring,  im- 
movably, into  the  blaze.  The  silence  became  intoler- 
able. It  echoed  and  beat  through  the  room,  drowning 
the  tick  of  the  clock. 

At  last  she  murmured,  "I  was  angry  at  you  for  not 
coming;  but  now,  — oh,  my  dear,  I  am  almost  sorry 
you  came." 

Her  utterance  had  the  timid  simplicity  of  a  child. 
There  was  nothing  left  in  her  of  the  coquette;  no 
archness;  no  double  meanings;  only  the  frightened 
tenderness  of  utter  adoration. 

*  *  Sorry ! — Why  ? ' '  The  man  brought  out  the  words 
with  an  effort,  not  turning  his  head. 

"  Because,  —  Oh,  I  did  n't  understand,  my  dear. 

62 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


I  don't  now.  Only,  some  way,  I  know  that  you  're  dij- 
ferent.  You're  too  good  for  me." 

He  was  on  his  knees  beside  her,  pressing  her  cold 
hands  to  his  temples.  "Too  good  for  you!"  he 
groaned.  "Haven't  I  sold  my  soul  for  you?  Have 
n't  I  done  it  of  my  own  free  will,  knowingly,  deliber- 
ately ?  What  is  there  left  of  me  now  that 's  too  good 
for  you?  — I'll  sell  that  too!" 

She  passed  her  fingers  gently  through  his  raven- 
black  hair.  "Come,  we  are  going  to  be  sensible,  my 
dear,"  she  said,  very  softly.  "You  will  go  back  home. 
You  are  not  going  to  stay  any  longer.  We  will  forget 
each  other." 

The  man  raised  his  face  to  her  with  an  agonizing 
inquiry.  "Do  you  mean  that?"  he  asked,  through 
lips  that  only  half  shaped  the  words. 

The  woman  shuddered.  "No,"  she  answered 
faintly. 

She  put  back  his  hair  from  his  damp  brow,  and 
kissed  it  very  lightly;  then  made  a  movement  to 
rise. 

"There,"  she  said,  gently.  "Now  you  know  every- 
thing. —  Listen.  We  are  going  to  have  a  little  supper. 
Promise  me  you  will  behave  very,  very  proper,  like 
my  good  little  boy  —  he?  You  will  not  make  me 
reproach  you  once." 

She  went  to  the  door.  "Susan,  we  will  have  supper 
at  ten  o'clock."    She  turned  to  Philip  with  a  bright 

63 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


smile.  "And  now/'  she  said,  "you  must  admire  my 
flowers.  I  get  them  all  for  you.  —  Listen,  my  dear, 
I  shall  call  you  Lippo,  because  I  am  sure  you  were 
bore  in  Naples. '^ 

"If  I  was  bom  in  Naples,  you  were  bom  in  some 
lovely  cave,  deep,  deep,  under  the  sea.  To-night 
you  make  me  think  of  a  wave  crowned  with  foam 
far  out  from  shore.  —  Or  else  you  came  into  being 
in  the  heart  of  a  magic  forest,  where  a  little  sunlight 
filters  down  only  at  mid-day,  the  trees  are  so  tall." 

"Ah,  that  is  pretty,"  she  cried.  "I  am  glad  you  Kke 
the  woods.  I  was  in  the  Black  Forest  once.  Oh,  it 
was  superb.  And  again,  one  time,  I  was  in  the  Forest 
of  Fontainebleau.  It  was  not  so  magnificent,  no, 
but  oh,  my  dear,  if  you  could  see  Barbizon,  —  even 
to-day,  when  the  great  artists  are  gone!  And  oh, 
my  Lippo,  such  a  cunning  Httle  restaurant  out  under 
the  trees  at  the  end  of  the  village,  in  a  sort  of  grove. 
Shall  I  ever  forget  it  ?  Such  venison  patties  as  I  had 
there  will  never  be  again,  I  swear  to  you." 

Philip  had  been  at  Barbizon,  too,  traversing  the 
forest  on  his  wheel;  but  he  did  not  recall  the  restau- 
rant. 

"No?  How  funny!"  she  exclaimed.  "A  big  grey 
stone  wall,  don't  you  remember  it  ?  and  such  a  pretty 
gate,  with  vines  that  hung  down  —  so !  —  and  little 
pink  blossoms  like  tiny  insects  with  wings.  And  oh, 
my  dear,  the  moon  at  Barbizon !  Do  you  remember  ? 

64 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


They  never  have  a  moon  like  that  anywhere  else  in 
the  world,  almost  as  bright  as  the  day,  and  so  calm, 
so  still,  like  a  dream.  I  do  not  wonder  those  artists 
fell  in  love  with  Barbizon,  do  you  ?  Poor  old  Millet, 
with  all  his  children,  —  how  many  of  them  ?  Nine  ? 
What  an  absurdity,  he,  for  an  artist,  who  should  be  free 
like  a  bird. — And  never  a  sou  to  support  them  with ! " 

Katrinka  had  succeeded  in  regaining  much  of  her 
customary  vivacity.  But  she  was  far  from  being  the 
woman  of  the  afternoon.  The  manner  of  the  siren 
had  been  laid  by  and  forgotten  as  soon  as  the  lure  of 
the  siren  had  done  its  work.  More  than  that,  some- 
thing in  the  intensity  and  abandon  of  the  man^s 
adoration  had  wrought  a  change  in  her  attitude 
toward  him,  which  had  become  timid,  veiled,  girlish, 
even,  as  if  the  sophistication  of  all  her  earlier  experi- 
ences in  love  had  quite  evaporated,  and  she  were 
knowing  for  the  first  time  its  thrill  and  wonder. 

They  examined  the  flowers  together  with  unaffected 
delight ;  and  she  made  him  shift  the  jars  about  from 
one  position  to  another,  to  try  the  effects  of  different 
lights  and  combinations.  She  made  him  admire  her 
new  player-piano,  and  gave  him  a  very  creditable  per- 
formance of  two  of  Moszkowski's  Spanish  Dances. 
Then  she  began  a  roll  of  Oberon  selections ;  but  broke 
off  suddenly,  and  half  turned  her  face  to  him,  with  a 
pensive,  far-away  expression  that  he  had  not  seen 
before. 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


^'I  had  a  little  sylvan  dance  I  used  to  do  to  that, 
oh,  long  ago,  six,  seven  years.  It  was  one  winter  in 
Copenhagen  at  a  big  cafe-theatre.  And  there  was  a 
lovely,  lovely  Kttle  song  in  Danish  that  went  with 
it.   Wait  a  minute :  this  is  how  it  went." 

She  sang  a  few  words  in  a  low,  memory-haunted 
voice,  that  quenched  itself  finally  in  a  shiver. 

"Ugh!  That  does  not  make  me  feel  very  gay, 
after  all.  I  do  not  Uke  to  remember  those  days  to- 
night. I  was  so  poor,  my  dear !  As  poor  as  a  goat  in 
an  alley !  Sometimes  I  could  not  even  keep  warm.  My 
fingers  would  be  blue,  —  often,  often !" 

She  was  inserting  another  roll,  when  Susan  an- 
nounced supper. 

"Oh,  good!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  never  was  so 
hungry  since  the  day  I  was  bore.  Come,  Lippo,  you 
will  see  what  lovely,  lovely  things  that  dear  soul  of  a 
Susan  can  cook!" 

She  gave  him  a  luminous  smile  of  invitation,  and 
led  the  way  out  of  the  room,  her  shimmering,  pale- 
green  robe  rippling  behind  her  like  a  broken  wave 
that  clings  with  cool  foam-fingers  to  the  sand  as  it 
retreats. 

To  Philip,  casting  a  final  backward  glance  into  the 
apartment  she  had  quitted,  it  appeared  already  bar- 
ren and  commonplace.  A  light,  a  magic  had  been 
taken  from  it.  He  would  have  had  a  horror  of  being 
left  alone  there,  where  the  elfin  music  of  her  voice  was 

66 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


not,  nor  the  forest  mystery  of  her  eyes,  nor  the  dream- 
like beauty  of  her  hair.  Where  she  was,  were  dazzle- 
ment,  intoxication,  and  a  little  forgetfulness ;  where 
she  was  not,  were  staring,  remorseless  truth,  trampled 
honour,  and  agonies  of  spirit. 

On  the  hearth  the  fire  blazed  more  and  more  fit- 
fully, more  and  more  uncertainly,  falling  slowly  into 
embers,  which  glowed,  grew  dull,  and  turned  to 
ashes.  Ashes,  after  the  enchantment  of  the  fire  had 
ceased. 


vn 

It  was  already  past  the  ColonePs  prescribed  bed- 
time ;  but  for  once  Georgia  permitted  herself  to  offer 
no  protest.  She  saw  that  he  was  in  no  humour  for 
sleep.  He  had  something  to  say  to  her.  She  guessed 
what  it  was,  and  had  instinctively  sought  to  delay 
the  moment  of  confidence.  She  had  continued  read- 
ing to  him  until  the  three  quick  flickers  of  the  elec- 
tric lamp  had  announced  the  retiring  hour.  Then 
she  had  carefully  inserted  a  marker  in  the  volume,  and 
laid  it  by.  The  furtive  hope  had  come  to  her  that 
possibly  her  father  would  wait  until  the  next  day. 

"But  I  am  not  going  to  bed  yet,"  Colonel  Raebum 
had  observed,  quietly.  "I  want  to  talk  with  you  a 
little  while." 

The  subdued  intentiveness  of  his  voice  told  her 
that  nothing  would  be  gained  by  objecting.  She  knew 
every  mood  of  her  father's.  It  was  only  by  a  constant 
observance  of  his  moods  and  a  tactful  adaptation  of 
her  manner  in  accordance  with  them  that  she  had 
succeeded  in  achieving  in  him  a  measurable  degree 
of  submissiveness  to  the  petty  tyrannies  of  invaHdism. 
She  knew  when  a  little  wheedling  and  petting  would 
make  him  amenable  to  the  hated  orders  of  his  doctors ; 
she  knew  when  pleading,  when  arguing,  or  dire  threats 

68 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


might  severally  be  of  avail;  and  she  knew  equally 
well  —  which  was,  perhaps,  her  chief  genius  as  a 
manager  —  the  moods  in  which  no  tactics  of  diplo- 
macy need  be  resorted  to,  the  Colonel's  resolution 
having  been  immovably  taken  contrariwise. 

To-day  he  had  been  exceptionally  docile.  Since  the 
doctor's  visit  that  morning  there  had  been  a  quiet, 
meditative  abstraction  in  his  manner  that  she  under- 
stood only  too  well  the  meaning  of.  This  evening  she 
knew  that  he  had  not  been  listening  to  her  reading. 
She  had  not  given  attention  to  it  herself.  Every  time 
that  her  eyes  had  turned  to  him,  sitting  there  so  pa- 
tiently, so  calmly,  in  his  invalid  chair,  under  the  shaded 
lamp,  she  had  felt  the  choke  come  in  her  throat. 

She  loved  him  for  being  so  difficult  and  restive 
under  the  galling  exactions  of  sanatorium  routine  — 
like  the  stricken  captain  of  Syria  who  had  journeyed 
to  the  Hebrew  prophet  and  could  scarcely  be  per- 
suaded to  follow  out  his  fantastic,  childish-seeming 
prescription.  But  she  adored  him  for  the  simple 
dignity  and  quietness  with  which  he  could  receive 
any  of  the  great  shocks  of  human  life,  making  no 
vain  protest,  indulging  in  no  womanish  emotion. 

That  too  was  the  warrior  in  him ;  the  imperturb- 
ability of  a  soul  that  had  seen  Death  stalking  down 
Antietam's  Bloody  Lane,  and  reaping  his  thousands 
in  the  slaughter-pen  of  Fredericksburg.  What  terrors 
had  the  grim  spectre  for  him  ? 

69 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


She  wished  that  she  could  face  the  future  with  equal 
serenity.  Since  the  moment  for  his  confidence  had 
come,  she  inwardly  braced  herself  to  receive  it  with 
the  dignity  and  self-possession,  at  least  of  manner, 
that  befitted  his  daughter. 

There  was  a  brief  silence,  while  the  Colonel  gazed 
thoughtfully  into  the  obscurity  of  the  farther  part  of 
the  room.  At  last  he  remarked,  in  a  casual  tone :  — 

"Dr.  Tyler  told  me  that  he  had  had  a  long  talk 
with  you  yesterday." 

He  had  spoken  casually ;  and  it  gave  her  the  excuse 
to  answer  in  the  same  fashion,  disregarding,  for  the 
moment,  the  under-meanings.  She  would  not  be 
the  first  to  commit  herself. 

"Yes,  I  had  a  long  talk  with  him,"  she  affirmed. 
"He  wanted  to  know  more  about  your  army  record; 
and  I  gave  him  good  measure.  Before  I  finished,  I 
had  told  him  about  Antietam  and  Fredericksburg 
and  Gettysburg  and  the  Wilderness.  He  appeared 
immensely  interested,  and  kept  asking  questions. 
His  father  was  in  the  Pennsylvania  Bucktail  Regi- 
ment at  Gettysburg;  and  he  remembered  having 
heard  from  him,  years  and  years  ago,  the  story  of 
how  you  captured  the  flag  of  the  Fourteenth  Ten- 
nessee." 

Even  as  a  child  Georgia  had  been  proud  to  recite 
this  brilliant  exploit  of  her  father's,  which  had  won 
him  the  United  States  Medal  of  Honor. 

70 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


It  was  during  Pickett's  historic  charge.  The 
Connecticut  regiment,  reduced  to  but  a  few  more 
than  a  hundred  men,  was  firing  from  behind  the 
famous  stone  wall.  Twice  the  oncoming  lines  of 
Confederate  infantry  had  wavered  and  broken  at  the 
rail-fence  under  the  raking  fire,  only  to  be  succeeded 
by  the  next  in  order.  At  last  they  had  halted  in  the 
shelter  of  the  fence.  In  pursuance  of  some  earlier 
command  the  colour-bearers  and  their  guards  had 
still  advanced,  and  planting  their  flags,  had  dropped 
to  the  ground  beside  them  to  escape  the  storm  of 
musketry.  One  colour-bearer,  more  reckless  than  the 
rest,  had  advanced  to  within  ten  rods  of  the  Union 
line. 

"We  must  have  that  flag,"  declared  Colonel 
Bright.   "Who  will  volunteer?'' 

In  an  instant  Major  Raeburn  and  two  others 
dashed  over  the  wall  and  were  off.  One  fell  dead 
before  he  had  gone  twenty  paces.  The  second  was 
wounded  in  the  leg.  By  a  miracle  Raeburn  had  es- 
caped the  shots  of  the  enemy  and,  waving  his  sabre 
over  the  prostrate  colour-guard,  seized  the  colours  with 
a  shout  of  triumph  and  started  again  for  the  stone 
wall.  The  same  moment  a  minie  ball  shattered  his 
right  arm.  The  sabre  fell  from  his  grip ;  but  the  flag 
was  saved.  He  achieved  the  Union  lines  again,  thrust 
the  colours  into  the  hands  of  Colonel  Bright,  and  fell 
unconscious  into  the  arms  of  a  fellow-officer. 

71 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Twice  already  he  had  been  wounded  in  the  defence 
of  his  country.  In  his  very  first  battle,  Antietam,  a 
rebel  ball  had  fleshed  his  leg,  and  he  had  lain  for  forty 
hours  in  the  rain  and  cold  of  the  terrible  Ploughed 
Field,  without  any  further  attentions  than  those 
which  a  prostrate,  comrade,  crawling  to  his  side,  had 
been  able  to  administer.  And  yet  (this  was  to  Georgia 
the  most  thrilling  story  of  all)  when  the  troops  were 
moved  across  the  Potomac  two  weeks  later,  he  had 
marched  at  the  head  of  his  company,  marched  there 
without  giving  a  sign  of  pain  or  fatigue,  until  uncon- 
sciousness came  upon  him,  and  he  dropped  to  the 
roadside.  She  liked  to  tell,  too,  how  a  poor  old  coun- 
try-woman, Granny  Creeling  by  name,  had  let  them 
carry  him  into  her  bare  little  cottage,  and  how  she 
and  her  daughter,  Judy,  had  tended  him  through  the 
fever  that  followed,  until,  six  weeks  later,  refusing  a 
furlough,  he  had  been  able  to  join  the  regiment  again 
at  Bolivar  Heights. 

^^ Hotspur"  was  the  name  he  had  won  for  him- 
self in  the  regiment.  He  had  seemed  actually  to  be 
courting  death,  so  uncannily  audacious  were  many 
of  his  exploits.  Who  could  blame  Georgia  for  being 
proud  of  her  father? 

Just  now  he  listened  to  her  with  fond  attention  as 
she  offered  her  eager  recital  of  her  talk  with  the 
doctor;  but  when  she  had  done  he  made  no  comment ; 
and  she  realized,  with  a  certain  mortification,  that  she 

72 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


had  gained  nothing  by  this  obstinate  delay.     The 
truth  was  to  come  out. 

"But  he  told  me,"  pursued  the  Colonel,  with  quiet 
decisiveness,  "that  he  had  spoken  to  you  on  another 
subject.  There  is  therefore  no  need  of  repeating  what 
he  said  to  me." 

She  gave  him  a  grave  look  which  no  longer  evaded 
the  issue. 

"Yes,  he  told  me,"  she  said.  "He  asked  if  you  had 
better  be  informed.  I  said,  ^  Certainly,'  —  that  what 
he  had  to  say  would  be  neither  much  of  a  surprise 
nor  much  of  a  shock  to  you.  I  knew  you  would  want 
to  know  the  truth." 

Her  voice  was  quite  calm,  almost  matter  of  fact, 
in  its  tone;  but  in  the  silence  of  the  apartment  it 
seemed  to  acquire  a  startling  loudness  which  dis- 
mayed her. 

"I  did  want  to  know  the  truth,"  he  said.  "I'm 
glad  I  know  it  now.  He  gives  me  six  months ;  perhaps 
a  year ;  possibly  even  more.  I  could  almost  hope  not 
more." 

He  sighed,  and  leaned  his  head,  with  an  air  of  great 
fatigue,  against  the  cushions  of  the  chair-back. 

For  a  moment  the  girl  gave  no  sign  of  having  heard 
the  words,  only  sat  there  motionless  in  the  stiff  little 
chair,  her  hands  limp  in  her  lap. 

"Did  he  not  tell  you  that,  daughter?"  asked  the 
old  man,  finally,  turning  his  tired  eyes  upon  her. 

73 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


*^No,"  she  replied,  dully,  '^not  that.  —  I  mean, 
not  that  about  the  six  months." 

"I  pressed  him  for  a  statement,  and  that  was  his 
answer,"  he  explained,  gravely.  ^^I  thought  best  that 
you  should  know.  I  see  no  reason  for  telling  anything 
to  any  one  else,  do  you  ?  Aunt  Min  would  make  a 
tragedy  out  of  it.  She'd  be  brooding  over  it  all  day 
long,  and  lie  awake  with  it  at  night.  But  I  knew  you 
could  be  trusted  to  take  it  sensibly." 

The  girl  was  looking  hard  at  the  window-curtain 
across  the  room.  She  noticed  that  the  pattern  on  it 
was  in  little  clocks,  connected  by  zig-zag  threads.  It 
was  not  a  very  pretty  pattern,  she  thought.  She  felt 
as  if  she  were  suffocating,  and  was  surprised  to  hear 
herself  giving  an  automatically  appropriate  answer 
to  her  father's  words. 

"Yes,  we  will  keep  it  to  ourselves,"  she  said.  "That 
will  be  the  most  sensible  way." 

As  she  spoke,  a  thrill  of  pride  came  over  her  at  the 
thought  of  the  high  place  her  father  was  according 
to  her  in  his  confidence.  They  two,  and  no  one  else ! 
They  two,  while  the  weeks  grew  into  months,  to  watch 
the  appointed  day  creep  closer  and  closer,  and  to 
watch  it  with  no  betraying  fear. 

"When  a  man  gets  to  be  seventy-three,"  said  the 
Colonel,  quietly,  "he  knows  that  at  best  his  course 
is  almost  completed.  Though  by  reason  of  strength 
his  years  may  pass  the  allotted  three-score  and  ten, 

74 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


yet  is  their  strength  but  labour  and  sorrow.  What  does 
a  year,  more  or  less,  matter?'' 

The  girl  looked  at  him  with  a  steady,  courageous 
smile  out  of  eyes  in  which  there  was  no  sign  of  tears. 

"It  matters,  father.  Everything  matters  to  those 
who  love  you.  But  what  matters  most  of  all,  since 
the  time  is  short,  is  that  you  should  be  just  as  happy 
and  comfortable  as  possible." 

"Not  that!  — Not  that,  girl!"  cried  the  Colonel, 
with  a  sudden,  inexplicable  outburst  of  feeling. 
"What  matters  most  is  that  I  should  be  at  peace  with 
my  Maker!" 

His  eyes  flashed,  and  he  brought  his  hand  down 
heavily  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

Georgia  was  not  unaccustomed  to  vehement  de- 
clarations of  this  sort  on  the  part  of  her  father;  yet 
they  always  disquieted  her  strangely.  She  could  never 
quite  reach  up  to  the  Sinaitic  fervour  of  his  religion : 
there  was  a  passionate  intensity,  a  prophetic  zeal  in 
it  that  was  all  outside  the  range  of  her  own  experience, 
and  which  she  could  only  regard  from  afar.  It  was 
not  a  religion  of  comfort.  It  often  seemed  to  her  that 
it  was  more  a  whip  across  bleeding  shoulders  than  a 
balm  for  wounds.  Yet  she  knew  that  nothing  was 
more  vital  in  the  composition  of  his  character  than 
this  austere,  eloquent,  consuming  faith.  Warrior 
and  prophet  —  that  was  her  father. 

But  at  the  present  moment  she  felt  only  a  fleeting 

IS 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


pain  that  he  should  have  so  sternly  corrected  her  in 
her  attempt  to  ease  his  burden.  The  Colonel  must 
have  seen  the  betrayal  of  it  in  her  countenance,  for 
his  manner  altered  at  once. 

"But  next  to  that  duty,"  he  said,  in  a  more  gentle 
voice,  "which  throughout  life  is  the  thing  that  mat- 
ters most,  what  you  say  may  be  true.  It  is  at  least 
worth  taking  into  account.  There  is  no  reason  why 
I  should  not  be  where  I  am  most  comfortable  and 
happy.  There  is  one  place,  Georgia,  and  only  one, 
where  I  long  to  be." 

There  was  no  need  to  speak  the  word.  The  girPs 
thoughts  flashed  back  to  their  beloved  hill  country 
with  a  yearning  that  rivalled  his  in  its  intensity. 

"I  asked  Dr.  Tyler  about  that,  too,"  he  went  on, 
after  a  brief  silence.  "He  agrees  with  me  that  I 
shall  be  better  off  there.  I  think  we  may  as  well  go 
at  once." 

"At  once!"  The  girl  echoed  the  words  faintly, 
scarcely  daring  to  believe  them. 

"He  said  it  would  make  very  little  difference  —  if 
any  difference  at  all  —  in  the  progress  of  events. 
When  I  needed  it,  he  said,  I  should  have  a  trained 
nurse.  But  there  was  nothing  to  be  gained  now,  he 
said,  by  medical  advice.  ^You  will  be  less  restless  at 
home,'  he  said,  ^amid  familiar  surroundings.'  He  gave 
you,  Georgia,  a  very  hearty  word  of  praise  for  your 
intelligent  and  devoted  care." 

76 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"Did  n't  he  think  you  were  worth  it?"  demanded 
the  girl,  with  a  luminous  smile. 

"These  last  months  have  been  a  heavy  strain  for 
you,"  the  Colonel  pursued,  ignoring  her  question. 
"And  those  ahead  will  not  be  easier,  I  fear.  But  there 
will  be  more  compensations." 

"When  shall  we  start?"  asked  Georgia. 

"The  sooner  the  better.  Could  we  get  off  to-mor- 
row night,  do  you  think,  by  the  Bay  State  Special? 
I  am  jealous  of  every  day." 

Georgia  believed  she  could  get  the  packing  done 
in  time.    She  would  make  a  beginning  that  night. 

"Perhaps  I  should  take  that  as  a  hint  to  be  off  to 
bed,"  said  the  Colonel.  "Give  me  a  hand,  will  you, 
my  girl?" 

She  offered  a  little  support  behind  the  shoulder 
from  which  hung  the  empty  sleeve,  and  he  rose  to  his 
feet.  At  the  door  of  the  inner  room  he  halted,  and 
gazed  solemnly  into  her  strong,  beautiful  countenance. 

"God  has  been  very  good  to  me,"  he  said.  "I 
praise  him  daily  that  since,  in  his  Infinite  Wisdom, 
he  took  your  brother  from  us,  he  blessed  me  with  a 
daughter  who  is  both  son  and  daughter  to  me." 

She  drew  down  his  stern,  fond  face  to  hers,  and 
kissed  him  tenderly.  A  few  minutes  later,  as  soon  as 
he  had  been  settled  for  the  night,  she  was  free  to  with- 
draw to  her  own  little  bedroom,  on  the  opposite  side 
of  their  living  apartment ;  and  without  turning  on  the 

77 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


light,  she  sat  for  a  long  time  on  the  broad  bare  window- 
ledge,  gazing  out  into  the  palely  luminous  night. 

How  baffling  and  mysterious  life  was,  bringing 
thus  to  her,  in  equal  hands,  and  at  the  same  moment, 
grief  and  joy!  The  two  emotions  did  not  neutralize 
each  other.  Nor  did  either  drown  the  other  or  obscure 
it,  for  more  than  an  instant,  from  consciousness. 

Her  father  had  six  months  to  live !  —  She  was  going 
to  see  Philip  again !  —  Six  months !  —  Six  days !  — 

She  had  not  recognized  until  that  moment  how 
deep  had  been  the  disappointment  of  sacrificing  the 
home  trip.  She  had  dismissed  it  from  mind  as  simply 
and  resolutely  as  she  could,  seeing  the  incontestable 
necessity  of  the  change  of  plan.  Her  letter  to  Philip 
had  been  cold,  almost.  She  could  not  have  borne  to 
have  him  think  that  she  was  not  glad  to  be  where  her 
father  needed  her.   But  now !  — 

Oh,  now  she  would  open  her  whole  heart  to  him, 
telling  him  everything  except  the  one  thing  that  was 
to  be  told  to  no  one.  A  great  longing  for  him  came 
over  her,  as  she  pondered  on  the  meeting  so  soon  to 
come.  His  love  was  going  to  be  so  dear  to  her,  so 
strengthening,  in  the  months  through  which  she  was 
about  to  pass. 

She  wondered  whether  she  had  ever  given  him  any 
idea  of  how  much  he  did  mean  to  her  already,  how 
much  that  was  rich  and  new  he  had  brought  into  her 
life  —  without  her  asking  for  it !  —  how  much  she  re- 

78 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


lied  on  him  in  her  heart  for  strength  and  sympathy. 
She  would  try  to  tell  him  that  —  something  of  it  — 
to-night,  before  she  began  her  packing;  and  the  rest 
she  would  tell  him  six  days  hence,  amid  their  dear 
hills,  where  the  witch-hazel  would  be  blooming  under 
the  white-gleaming  sky  of  November.  Oh,  how 
happy,  how  happy,  she  would  be  to  feel  herself  once 
more  in  his  strong,  protecting  arms,  that  gave  her 
courage  for  every  hard  duty,  that  restored  her  faith 
in  herself,  and  made  her  sure  that  life  was  rich  and 
beautiful ! 

She  switched  on  the  light,  and  seated  herself  at  the 
little  writing-desk;  but  it  was  midnight  before  the 
short  letter  was  completed. 

"Oh,  Philip,  dear,"  ran  the  last,  eager  paragraph 
of  it,  "are  you  half  as  happy,  I  wonder,  as  I  am,  at  the 
thought  of  what  is  ahead  for  us !  I  have  sat  so  long  in 
the  tower,  —  how  long  I  have  not  known  till  to-night ! 
—  and  now  my  knight-errant  is  coming  home  to  me 
from  his  roaming  afar,  bringing  his  first  trophies  of 
conquest  and  achievement.  I  shall  be  counting  the 
hours  of  every  day,  dear  knight,  blessing  them  as  they 
go,  because  each  brings  you  nearer,  nearer,  to 

"Your  loving  Georgia." 


VIII 

About  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  Victorine,  who 
had  just  carried  in  a  hot  soapstone  to  the  old  maman, 
heard  the  turn  of  a  latch-key  in  the  front  door  and  cau- 
tious steps  mounting  the  stairs.  Her  first  thought  was 
that  it  might  be  her  brother  Victor,  returning  late  from 
the  kitchen  of  the  hotel.  But  she  had  never  known 
him  to  be  so  late  as  this.  She  listened  attentively  for 
the  opening  of  the  door  of  the  second-floor  apartment 
which  he  and  Jenny  occupied ;  but  no,  the  steps  con- 
tinued. 

There  was  the  creak  of  the  loose  board  in  the  second 
flight.  Well,  it  could  not  be  the  strange  Monsieur 
Barry,  for  he  had  not  gone  out  at  all,  she  was  certain. 
But  there  was  only  one  other  lodger  in  the  mansarde. 

Victorine' s  philosophy  of  the  other  sex  was  not 
without  its  touch  of  GalHc  cynicism.  ^^They  are  only 
men,"  she  was  wont  to  say.  *'They  must  have  their 
pleasures,  I  suppose."  Nevertheless  there  came  a 
httle  pang  of  disappointment  with  the  discovery  she 
had  just  made;  and  before  she  settled  herself  com- 
fortably for  her  final  sleep,  she  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 
She  had  believed,  somehow,  that  the  new  young  man 
was  a  httle  different.  He  had  seemed  so.  There  was 
a  frank,  boyish  charm  about  him  that  had  won  a  place 

80 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


in  her  heart,  in  spite  of  his  way  of  filling  the  house 
with  pests. 

As  for  Philip,  he  had  hastily  flung  off  his  clothes  in 
the  dark  mansarde  and  crawled  into  bed.  Five  min- 
utes later  he  was  asleep.  And  no  one  was  left  in  the 
house  to  listen  to  the  sounds  of  the  city's  awakening 
life  —  the  rumble  of  the  milk- wagons  and  the  market 
trucks  on  the  paving-stones  outside,  the  first  click  of 
the  mail-box  at  the  next  corner  —  except  the  little  old 
maman,  whose  feet  would  not  get  warm,  and  who 
kept  up  a  fretful,  worried  cough,  much  like  the  scratch- 
ing of  a  fowl  on  gravel. 

It  was  the  pale  glare  of  sunlight  on  his  pillow  that 
roused  the  boy  at  last  from  a  drug-like  sleep  which 
still  hung  numbly  upon  his  limbs  and  eyelids.  At 
the  moment  of  waking  there  comes  into  the  face  of 
every  human  being,  no  matter  what  his  character 
or  condition,  a  fleeting  look  of  simple  wonder  and 
inquiry  which  is  utterly  childlike.  The  eyes  have 
opened  upon  a  world  still  strange,  the  lineaments 
of  which  only  gradually  interpret  themselves  into  a 
known  order.  For  a  few  seconds  Philip  saw  nothing 
but  the  odd  light  that  poured  over  his  bed  from  the 
southward-facing  window;  then,  automatically,  he 
reached  for  his  watch ;  and  the  next  instant,  still  in  a 
daze,  he  was  sitting  upright  in  bed,  gazing  about  him. 

Something  cried  out  to  his  bewildered  conscious- 
ness, like  a  voice  just  too  far  away  to  be  distinguish- 

8i 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


able.  He  had  been  somewhere.  Something  had  hap- 
pened to  him.  A  dim  impression  of  distaste  invaded 
his  mind. 

Suddenly  his  eyes  fell  with  recognition  upon  his 
evening  clothes  lying  in  a  negligent  heap  on  the  table ; 
and  at  once,  with  a  sharp,  agonizing  dismay,  he  re- 
membered: remembered  everything  with  the  vivid, 
total  clarity  of  a  photographic  record.  The  whole  ad- 
venture assailed  his  mind  with  terrible,  overwhelming 
effectiveness,  as  if  it  had  been  taking  up  a  position  of 
vantage  during  the  hours  of  slumber,  lying  in  wait, 
training  its  deadly  artillery  upon  him  for  the  moment 
when  he  should  come  to  himself. 

He  had  a  sickening  fear  of  the  day  ahead  that 
must  be  Hved.  The  world  was  loathsome  to  him.  He 
believed  that  he  must  carry  in  his  countenance  the 
brand  of  his  baseness ;  and  on  an  impulse  of  morbid 
curiosity,  like  one  who  studies  a  facial  disfigurement 
to  discover  whether  it  is  truly  as  bad,  or  not  quite  so 
bad  as  his  memory  of  it,  he  leapt  out  of  bed  and  con- 
fronted himself  in  the  mirror.  Was  there  a  treacher- 
ous expression  about  the  mouth  that  he  had  not  seen 
before  ?  It  might  be  a  trick  of  the  muggy  light,  which 
gave  a  yellow,  sickly  look  to  his  skin.  Yet  even  after 
he  had  been  brought  back  more  into  the  current  of 
everyday  sensation  by  a  cold  plunge,  the  conviction 
remained  that  an  actual  change  to  something  meaner 
and  uglier  had  taken  place  in  him. 

82 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


He  had  proved  that  he  was  as  weak  as  the  weakest. 
Weaker.  He  had  been  given  every  bond,  every  prop 
to  keep  him  loyal  to  the  best  that  was  in  him ;  and  he 
had  lightly  broken  away  from  them  all.  Where  was 
the  honest,  manly  pride  he  had  rejoiced  in  but  the 
previous  afternoon,  that  he  could  tell  her  everything 
without  shame?  Would  he  jever  be  without  shame 
again?  His  soul  would  henceforth  be  the  home  of 
shame. 

He  had  aspired  to  be  her  knight,  without  fear  and 
without  reproach.  Though  she  might  never  have 
known  what  the  cost  of  the  conflict  had  been  to  him, 
he  had  made  a  vow  to  carry  himself  stainless  and  unat- 
tainted  in  his  lady's  honour.  And  now,  deliberately, 
with  full  knowledge  of  what  he  was  doing,  he  had 
flung  off  her  token  and  trampled  it  in  the  mire. 

Two  lines  of  a  poem  he  had  once  cut  from  a  maga- 
zine awoke  somewhere  in  his  memory  and  repeated 
themselves  over  and  over  with  horrible  distinctness 
while  he  was  dressing. 

I  bear  her  promise  in  my  heart; 
Her  kiss  upon  my  brow. 

Her  kiss !  How  jealous  he  had  been  of  the  honour ! 

Whose  kiss  now  ?  —  He  sickened  as  he  felt  a  flood 
of  new  memories  inundating  his  mind,  memories  that 
he  knew  would  fester  there  always,  even  though  the 
flood  might  subside.   Thenceforth  he  must  be  their 

83 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


prey.  Like  the  hideous  offspring  of  Sin  and  Death 
they  would  feed  upon  their  progenitor. 

"Her  kiss  upon  my  brow!" 

Well,  that  dream  was  over.  Georgia  must  know, 
she  had  a  right  to  know,  that  her  true  knight  was 
a  libertine.  He  would  tell  her.  The  conviction 
came  that  she  would  never  forgive  him.  He  knew  so 
well  the  high-mettled  spirit  of  the  girl,  her  sensitive- 
ness, the  fine,  jealous  purity  of  her  nature.  He  con- 
ceived the  shuddering  recoil  she  would  have  from 
the  mere  idea  of  further  relations  between  herself  and 
him.  The  chasm  between  them  was  one  that  could 
not  be  passed  over. 

The  paltry  speciousness  of  the  excuses  he  had 
made  the  previous  day  was  mercilessly  revealed  to  him 
now.  The  fact  that  she  could  not  come  home  for  the 
holiday  —  he  had  actually  used  that  as  a  license !  She 
was  in  trouble.  Then,  if  ever,  it  had  been  laid  upon 
him  to  be  loyal ;  to  show  her  that  he  could  be  as  brave 
as  she  in  accepting  a  harsh  necessity.  Instead  he  had 
thrown  his  birthright  and  his  high  privilege  to  the 
winds. 

And  whatever  permits  Nature  might  stand  ready  to 
issue,  there  was  a  law  written  in  his  own  heart,  the 
letter  of  which  he  could  never  doubt,  —  never  had 
doubted,  —  only  sought  means  of  evading. 

There  was  not  one  thought,  one  memory,  that  could 
relieve  the  bitterness  of  that  hour.  His  treachery  had 

84 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


been  complete,  voluntary,  even  striven  for,  and  car- 
ried out  in  the  full  light  of  the  facts. 

Dressing  with  unusual  haste,  because  of  the  ad- 
vanced time,  Philip  allowed  himself  just  two  or  three 
minutes  to  look  at  his  pets  before  rushing  away  to  the 
ofl&ce. 

Victorine,  who  was  in  the  kitchen  when  he  entered, 
discreetly  contented  herself  with  a  "  Good-morning, 
monsieur.  Are  you  not  a  little  late  to-day?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered  curtly.  "I  overslept." 

"Ah,  I  see,"  she  said. 

He  gave  her  a  sharp  look ;  but  her  face  was  perfectly 
expressionless. 

"How  was  the  fish?"  he  demanded. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Not  too  bad,"  she 
replied. 

Papa  Victor  was  in  his  chair  by  the  stove,  a  relic  of 
a  man,  all  legs  and  arms,  now,  Hke  a  spider,  but  once 

—  as  you  might  infer  from  the  pendulousness  of  the 
skin  about  his  cheeks  and  neck  —  of  rotund  propor- 
tions. He  was  by  no  means  satisfied  with  Victorine's 
account  of  the  fish.  Perhaps  he  aimed  at  a  restoration 
of  himself  into  her  good  graces. 

"Oh,  de  fish!"  he  declared,  rubbing  his  brown 
hands  over  one  another  with  reminiscent  reHsh.  "He 
was  mos'  appetissant,  monsieur.  And  his  Sauce 
Cafe  Antoine  was  precisely  to  the  just  consistence 

—  eh,  Susanne,  were  we  not  agree'  as  to  dat?    Our 

85 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Victorine  is  in  fact  of  a  marvellous  skill  wid  de 
fish/' 

Victorine  hunched  her  neck  contemptuously. 
"  What  is  a  fish  ?  "  she  demanded.  Evidently  the  papa 
Victor  was  still  out  of  favour. 

The  old  man  protested  in  a  thin,  cracked  voice, 
while  his  head  wagged  a  little  on  its  shrivelled  stalk. 
"Non,  non,  ma  Torine.  De  fish,  he  eez  difficile  — 
ver'  difficile!  He  tak'  a  good  cook.  I  would  razzer  a 
tousan'  time  do  a  meat  dan  a  fish.  De  fish,  monsieur, 
he  have  a  delicatesse,  a  — " 

"Tiens,  mon  pere,"  interrupted  Victorine,  authori- 
tatively, "you  are  talking  too  much.  Mister  Philip 
wishes  to  visit  his  hospital." 

She  made  a  great  clatter  in  the  dish-pan,  and  added, 
without  looking  around,  "The  cat  is  dead,  I  see." 

"What!"  cried  Philip,  in  dismay,  and  darted  from 
the  room. 

It  was  true.  He  only  stopped  to  assure  himself  of 
the  fact. 

"When  did  it  happen,  do  you  know?"  he  de- 
manded, hoarsely,  reentering  the  kitchen. 

Victorine 's  dishes  ceased  their  clatter  only  long 
enough  for  her  to  reply,  without  turning  her  head, 

"No,  monsieur,  I  know  nothing.  About  eleven 
o'clock  I  hear  a  terrible  noise  of  cat  and  dog.  I  did 
not  know  what  it  could  mean.  I  thought  perhaps  it 
would  be  better  to  tell  you  about  it,  in  case  there 

86 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


might  be  some  trouble ;  so  I  go  to  call  you ;  but  I  think 
you  are  not  at  home." 

A  horror  came  over  the  boy.  This  too !  It  seemed 
so  appropriate  a  retribution  that  he  had  no  protest 
to  offer.  He  did  not  even  ask  Victorine  whether  she 
had  made  any  effort  to  avert  the  catastrophe.  His 
little  charge  was  dead,  and  it  was  because  he  had 
neglected  it. 

Drawing  out  a  half  dollar  from  his  pocket,  he  of- 
fered it  shyly  to  the  papa  Victor. 

"Would  you  have  the  leisure,  sir,  to  dig  a  little 
grave  for  it,  some  time  to-day,  in  the  garden?" 

"Under  ze  fence,  where  one  day  it  would  be  so 
happy  to  been  walking,  mon  ami?"  supplied  the  old 
man,  quick  to  appreciate  the  sentimental  possibilities 
of  the  situation.  "  Wid  pleasure !  And  if  Torine  has 
catch  a  mouse  in  her  trap,  I  bury  de  mouse  wid  him 
—  between  his  two  little  pattes,  so !  —  de  mouse  dat 
he  never,  never  will  eat — hein?" 

All  that  day  Philip's  soul  was  in  torment.  Times 
beyond  number  he  must  go  over  the  same  round  of 
cruel  reflections  that  he  had  entered  upon  with  his 
first  waking  thoughts.  There  was  no  relief ;  no  forget- 
fulness.  Every  fact  stood  out  with  merciless  distinct- 
ness in  a  light  without  shadows.  A  crushing  fatigue 
that  had  no  drowsiness  in  it  came  upon  him  as  the 
hours  passed.  His  eyes  ached ;  his  head  throbbed  with 
pain ;  remorse  and  shame  lacerated  his  mind.   Only 

87 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


a  nature  of  noble  susceptibilities  could  have  felt  so 
pitilessly  the  irretrievableness  of  the  thing  he  had 
done.  Many  men  of  his  acquaintance  —  self-respect- 
ing men,  working  beside  him  there  in  the  draughting 
room  —  would  have  seen  nothing  very  reprehensible 
in  his  misstep.  For  him,  too,  time  might  dull  the 
shame,  and  ingenuity  find  apology.  But  not  yet.  Just 
now  he  could  only  remember  that  he  had  proved  rene- 
gade to  a  high  pledge ;  that  he  had  been  false  to  the 
best  thing  in  his  life. 

A  half  hour  before  closing  time,  feeling  quite  unable 
to  keep  at  his  draughting  any  longer,  he  quitted  the 
office,  and  walked  home  alone  by  way  of  the  water- 
front. In  the  murky  yellow  twilight,  he  felt  himself 
passing  through  a  city  of  lepers.  The  din  of  the  ferry- 
whistles,  the  rumble  of  the  drays,  the  rough,  profane 
voices  of  stevedores  and  truckmen,  the  rush  and  bang 
of  the  elevated  trains  a  block  or  two  distant,  assaulted 
his  ears  hke  some  fever  nightmare,  confused,  terrific, 
overwhelming.  A  great  horror  of  life  settled  upon 
his  spirit.  How  brutal,  how  crude,  how  pitiless !  He 
knew  it  now,  to  the  rotten  core  of  it ! 

There  was  one  thing  that  he  must  do.  He  must 
write  to  Georgia.  Once  he  had  done  that,  he  did 
not  care  much  what  might  happen  afterwards. 

Reaching  his  MuUin  Street  lodgings  at  last,  he  no- 
ticed a  letter  on  the  hall-way  stand.  It  was  too  dark 
to  distinguish  the  address.  Pressing  the  envelope  to 

88 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


his  nostrils,  he  recognized  the  faint  fragrance.  He 
could  make  out  a  special-delivery  stamp  in  the  corner. 
— It  flashed  over  him  that  the  Colonel  must  have  had 
a  relapse.  Perhaps  at  this  very  moment  Georgia  was 
anxiously  waiting  by  his  bedside. 

With  the  envelope  tight  clutched  in  his  hand,  he 
rushed  up  to  his  room,  Ht  the  gas,  and  read  the  joyful, 
loving  paragraphs  the  girl  had  written  in  the  mid- 
night silence  of  her  little  chamber.  An  unstayable 
flood  of  tears  welled  into  his  eyes.  He  flung  himself 
on  the  bed,  and  sobbed,  like  a  broken-hearted  child. 


IX 


He  did  not  write  the  letter  after  all.  He  tried  more 
than  once,  but  without  success.  The  thought  that  he 
was  going  to  see  her  so  soon  stood  in  his  way.  All 
these  hard  things  of  which  she  must  be  told  could  be 
better  spoken  than  written.  It  was  a  franker,  simpler, 
more  manly  way.  To  write  them  seemed  an  attempt 
to  evade  the  humiliation  of  telling  them.  He  was  not 
seeking  to  evade  humiliation.  He  was  in  a  mood  even 
to  welcome  it.  Before  her  very  eyes  he  would  bare  his 
shame,  sparing  himself  no  infliction  of  veracity. 

And  beyond,  who  could  say?  The  hope  began  to 
grow  in  him  that  perhaps  there  might  yet  be  forgive- 
ness. If  she  saw  how  cruelly  in  earnest  he  was ;  if  she 
could  only  comprehend  the  quality  of  his  resolutions 
for  the  future ;  and  if  —  possibly  —  she  could  recog- 
nize how  peculiarly  belaying  was  the  mesh  of  circum- 
stances in  which  he  had  been  taken,  he  felt  almost 
confident  that  she  would  not  refuse  him  another 
chance.  His  disloyalty  might  have  been  as  deliberate 
and  calculated  as  it  had  seemed  to  him  in  his  worst 
moments  of  self-contempt.  At  the  same  time  there 
could  be  no  denial  of  the  fact  —  he  saw  it  plainly 
enough  as  the  intensity  of  his  first  mood  gradually 
subsided  —  that  the  series  of  incidents  which  had 

90 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


ended  by  throwing  him  out  of  his  bearings  was  almost 
as  if  prearranged  for  that  purpose,  so  insidious  was 
its  adaptation  to  the  quality  of  his  own  tempera- 
ment. 

Georgia  must  see  that.  If  he  told  her  everything 
exactly  as  it  had  come  to  pass,  he  believed  that  she 
would  be  able  to  make  allowances.  He  had  no 
thought  of  excusing  himself ;  he  did  not  desire  to  make 
wrong  seem  right;  but  he  had  confidence  that  the 
truth,  scrupulously  and  unreservedly  uttered,  might 
justify  a  hope  of  forgiveness. 

And  he  wanted  to  be  forgiven !  He  had  never  loved 
Georgia  so  much  as  now,  when  he  felt  himself  cast 
out  from  her  presence.  She  became  synonymous  in 
his  mind  with  everything  that  was  beautiful  and  noble 
and  of  good  report  in  his  own  heart ;  she  was  his  aspi- 
ration ;  his  religion ;  the  thing  he  prayed  some  day  to 
be  worthy  of. 

Instead  of  the  letter,  therefore,  he  sent  a  note,  wel- 
coming her  home,  and  telling  her  that  he  would  ride 
out  to  Highstone  for  a  little  first  visit  Wednesday 
evening  if  his  railroad  connections  did  not  fail  him. 
They  did  not.  About  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  he 
descended  at  Folkbridge,  went  directly  to  the  livery 
stable,  and  hired  a  mount. 

He  was  not  going  to  take  time  to  drop  in  at  Judge 
Burchell's  first.  He  knew  that  his  mother  and  step- 
father would  be  indifferent  as  to  the  hour  of  his 

91 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


arrival;  and  he  dreaded  the  delays  of  greetings 
and  the  conspicuousness  of  a  hasty  departure  for 
Highstone. 

In  a  peculiar  degree  the  Burchells  seemed  to  him 
not  his  own  people.  Since  the  remarriage  of  his  mo- 
ther, ten  years  ago  now,  new  children  had  been  born 
to  her.  An  utterly  different  set  of  ties  and  interests  ab- 
sorbed her.  At  first  PhiHp  had  been  acutely  and  pain- 
fully conscious  of  the  relaxation  of  the  old  intimacy ; 
but  he  had  ended  by  accustoming  himself  to  it  and 
asking  nothing  more  from  her  than  she  was  able  to 
give.  That  was  not  much.  A  woman  of  self-centred 
and  rather  petty  disposition,  it  was  inevitable  that  her 
heart  should  be  engrossed  with  present  concerns  of 
which  he  knew  little,  and  that  the  gulf  between  them 
should  widen. 

The  tie  of  the  past  that  meant  most  to  him  in  the 
home  town  was  his  affection  for  Httle  Aunt  Prudence, 
his  father's  sister,  who  still  kept  the  old  Wetherell 
house,  and  with  whom  he  could  freely  talk  of  other 
days,  and  of  the  brave,  handsome,  ill-fated  young 
father  who  had  been  the  god  of  his  boyhood's  idolatry. 
But  Aunt  Prue  also  he  would  see  to-morrow.  To-night 
there  was  other  business  on  hand. 

Drawing  on  a  pair  of  borrowed  riding-boots,  he 
mounted  the  little  roan,  and  was  off,  —  down  the 
quiet,  lamp-lit  street,  across  the  bridge,  and  into  the 
open  country.  It  was  a  mild  November  night,  with  a 

92 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


creeping,  dream-like  mist  in  every  hollow,  under  a 
moon  almost  full.  He  felt  the  physical  exhilaration  of 
the  vigorous  exercise.  The  rhythmic  pound  of  his 
horse's  hoofs  on  the  dry  roadway  was  the  sweetest 
music  he  had  heard  for  many  months,  and  his  whole 
being  yielded  to  it  with  the  joyful  ease  and  alacrity  of 
old  custom. 

How  tall  and  still  the  East  Woods  appeared  in  the 
moonlight!  How  magically  lovely  was  the  veiled 
gleam  of  the  old  mill-pond  through  the  serried  tree 
trunks ! 

Out  of  the  woods,  —  up  and  up,  slowly,  through 
broad,  moon-flooded  fields !  In  one  of  them  the  great 
autumnal  shocks  of  com  were  still  standing,  evenly 
distanced  from  one  another,  ranks  of  wild,  tattered 
women,  wind-blown,  and  with  arms  flung  abroad. 
Here  and  there  he  saw  a  shock  that  had  been  beaten 
down  and  that  crouched,  with  its  head  almost  to  the 
ground,  a  Hagar  in  efi&gy,  bewailing  the  outcast  chil- 
dren of  summer. 

The  man's  soul  leapt  and  thrilled  before  the  mel- 
ancholy beauties  of  the  autumn  night.  For  a  few  brief 
minutes  he  had  forgotten  everything,  except  that  he 
was  once  more  on  a  horse's  back  and  passing  through 
the  country  of  heart's  desire.  But  not  for  long.  As 
he  drew  nearer  to  the  Raeburn  estate  the  horrible 
business  he  must  transact  crowded  upon  his  con- 
sciousness with  crushing  force.  How  brutally  out  of 

93 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


accord  with  such  a  night  of  dreams !  —  but  he  must 
tell  her. 

At  a  tall  gateway,  topped  with  broken  lanterns,  he 
turned  in.  His  mare  fell  into  an  easy  trot ;  and  they 
passed  up  the  neglected  avenue  that  had  once  been 
the  pride  of  the  county.  At  a  turn  of  the  drive  the 
house  came  suddenly  full  into  view,  a  tall  colonial 
structure,  moon- white  under  a  tangling  mantle  of  wis- 
taria and  woodbine  that  had  mounted  ambitiously 
from  porch  to  roof,  and  hung  in  dark,  luxuriant 
streamers  from  the  lofty  eaves. 

There  were  Hghts  in  the  downstairs  windows.  That 
was  the  library — the  Colonel's  favourite  retreat.  Per- 
haps she  was  there  with  him  at  this  moment.  Perhaps 
she  had  already  heard  the  dull  clatter  of  his  horse's 
hoofs.  Of  a  sudden  his  teeth  began  to  chatter,  as  if 
with  fear.  He  locked  his  jaws  fast  together,  drew  rein 
before  the  porch,  and  leapt  to  the  ground. 

Before  he  had  reached  the  steps,  however,  the  tall 
front  door  opened  and  shut,  and  in  the  momentary 
flash  of  light  from  within,  he  saw  Georgia  coming  to 
him.  For  an  instant  his  hmbs  refused  to  move,  and  he 
stood  there,  shaken  with  a  nervous  chill,  in  the  drive- 
way, looking  at  her  and  trying  to  speak.  He  saw  her 
dimly  as  she  crossed  the  dark  porch ;  and  then  she 
emerged  into  the  full  light  of  the  moon,  radiant,  daz- 
zling, a  creature  of  that  dreaming  night,  and  yet  flesh 
and  blood,  ready  to  be  taken  into  his  arms.  She  de% 

94 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


scended  the  steps  with  swift,  easy  grace  and  came 
toward  him,  her  eyes  alight  with  the  rapture  of  the 
meeting. 

"Philip  —  oh,  Philip,  —  how  dear  of  you  to  come 
way  out  here  to-night !" 

He  had  tried  to  speak.  He  had  tried  to  cry  out, 
"  Stop.  Don't  come  near  me ! "  But  the  words  would 
not  utter  themselves  from  his  paralyzed  lips.  He  no 
longer  knew  what  he  was  doing.  The  touch  of  her 
hand,  the  welcome  of  her  waiting  lips,  robbed  him 
of  his  last  shadow  of  reason.  With  a  smothered 
cry,  he  enfolded  her  in  his  arms.  The  wild  thought 
came  to  him  that  it  was  for  the  last  time ;  that  never 
again  would  she  come  to  him  like  this,  inviting  his 
embrace. 

"  Oh,  you  are  shivering,"  she  said,  at  last,  in  a  voice 
of  tender  reproach.  "How  rash  of  you  to  come  out 
on  such  a  night  without  warm  gloves  and  a  riding- 
coat.  You  must  have  forgotten  what  our  country 
November  is  like." 

The  man  answered  her  in  a  dazed,  absent  voice, 
like  one  but  partly  awakened  from  a  trance.  "  Oh,  — 
yes,  —  I  must  have  forgotten.  I  did  not  know  it  would 
be  so  cold." 

She  gave  him  an  anxious  look  and  was  about  to 
speak,  when  a  bell  rang  inside  the  house. 

"That's  father,"  she  said.  "He  probably  thinks  I 
ought  not  to  be  out  here  without  something  on  my 

95 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


head ;  but,  oh,  I  could  n't  wait  when  I  heard  you. 
Now  you're  going  to  come  in  and  talk  to  him,  are  n't 
you?   He's  been  asking  about  you." 

"Yes,"  answered  Philip,  automatically.  "If  he'd 
like  to  see  me,  —  of  course." 

In  his  mind  he  saw  the  purpose  of  the  evening 
already  miscarried.  If  the  Colonel  was  there,  and 
wanted  to  see  him,  there  would  be  no  chance  to  tell 
Georgia  —  unless,  possibly,  the  chance  might  come 
after  the  invahd  had  retired.  There  was  the  quick 
lifting  of  a  load  from  his  spirit,  as  from  that  of  a  con- 
demned prisoner,  granted  an  hour's  reprieve. 

"Just  tie  her  in  the  bam,  Philip,"  she  said,  "and 
come  right  into  the  library.  We'll  be  waiting  for 
you." 

She  turned  and  ran  up  the  steps  into  the  house. 
When  he  followed  her,  a  few  minutes  later,  he  was 
conscious  that  his  pulses  were  running  under  pressure. 
A  clear,  brilliant  excitement,  an  unnatural  ease  had 
taken  possession  of  him. 

As  Georgia  rose  to  admit  him,  it  came  to  her  that 
she  had  never  seen  him  looking  so  handsome  or  so 
happy.  How  well  the  new  life  must  be  agreeing  with 
him! 

Colonel  Raeburn  was  comfortably  settled  in  a  deep 
easy-chair  before  the  library  fire,  with  a  blanket  about 
his  knees.  He  smiled  in  a  most  friendly  manner  as 
Philip  entered,  and  extended  his  left  hand. 

96 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"You  will  excuse  my  not  getting  up,  Philip,"  he 
said.  "But  there's  all  the  hands  I  possess,  and  I'm 
right  glad  to  welcome  you." 

"Is  n't  it  splendid,  sir,"  said  the  young  man,  "that 
they  consented  to  let  you  come  home  after  all !  It  must 
mean  that  you  are  much  better  than  some  of  us  had 
begun  to  fear." 

The  Colonel  regarded  him  with  another  frank 
smile.  "Yes,"  he  replied,  jocosely,  "I  esteem  myself 
fortunate  to  have  escaped  from  that  place  with  my 
skin.  I  began  to  think  they  had  given  me  a  life  sen- 
tence. —  Eh,  Georgia?" 

"Father  does  not  take  kindly  to  sanatoriums,"  she 
laughed.  "I  am  glad  you  were  not  there,  Philip,  to 
see  the  horrible  fuss  he  made  over  every  littlest  thing 
the  doctors  ordered." 

The  Colonel  grunted.  "  It 's  no  life  for  a  man  of  my 
years,"  he  declared.  "It  may  do  very  well  for  women 
and  for  the  puling,  round-shouldered  youth  of  the 
present  generation." 

At  the  girl's  direction,  Philip  drew  up  to  the  fire, 
and  while  he  was  warming  himself,  she  gave  him  an 
account  of  the  home  trip  and  of  the  plans  for  the 
winter. 

"You're  going  to  be  here  right  along  now?"  he 
asked. 

She  nodded,  and  for  an  instant  an  expression  came 
into  her  eyes  that  he  did  not  know  how  to  interpret. 

97 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


"Yes,"  she  said,  "right,  right  here.  They're  not  go- 
ing to  get  us  away  again,  are  they,  dad?" 

"No  one  can  guess,"  said  the  old  man,  "save  he 
who  has  languished  in  a  sanatorium,  how  good  it  is  to 
be  on  our  own  heath,  under  our  own  roof." 

A  little  later  the  conversation  turned  to  Philip  and 
his  life  in  town. 

"Georgia  has  been  singularly  reticent,"  declared 
the  Colonel.  "I  believe  I  do  not  even  know  where  you 
live.  Is  it  in  the  newer  up- town  region?" 

Philip  volunteered  a  vivacious  description  of  his 
lodgings  in  Greenwich. 

"You  may  recognize  the  house,"  he  said,  "by  a 
little  sign  in  the  front  window :  ^  The  New  York  Cor- 
respondence Institute  of  Auto-health.'  What  auto- 
health  may  be,  or  why  it  needs  an  institute,  I  cannot 
say.  So  far  I  have  seen  only  two  persons  who  appear 
directly  connected  with  the  concern,  —  a  tall,  dark, 
non-committal-looking  man,  and  a  fair,  pug-nosed 
stenographer,  who  collects  the  mail  from  a  special 
mail-box  in  the  front  hall  and  seems  to  feel  very  heav- 
ily the  burden  of  the  world's  woe.  I  call  her  a  steno- 
grapher. For  aught  I  know  she  may  be  a  priestess." 

He  went  on  to  describe  his  landlady,  the  stolid, 
shrewd,  unsentimental  Victorine. 

"Behold,"  he  said,  taking  his  blank-book  from  his 
pocket,  and  rapidly  sketching  down  a  few  telling  lines. 
"Her  proportions  are  about  as  four  to  one,  —  thus. 

98 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Here  is  the  boundless  waist-line ;  here  stand  the  shoul- 
ders. This  hand  brandishes  a  long  spoon  dangerously ; 
the  other  clutches  a  mustard-box  —  so !" 

The  Colonel  was  immensely  entertained.  "  But  you 
must  give  us  some  features/'  he  demanded,  not  satis- 
fied with  the  vacant  oval  by  which  the  countenance  of 
Victorine  was  indicated. 

"That's  not  so  easy,"  said  Philip.  "However  — 
here's  the  mouth,"  —  he  drew  a  single  short,  straight 
line,  —  "set  like  the  two  jaws  of  a  pair  of  pincers. 
There  are  the  eyes,"  —  he  put  in  two  dots,  —  "small 
and  hard  as  shoe-buttons,  under  a  low,  level  brow-line, 
thus.  —  There,  I  think  that  will  do  for  the  redoubt- 
able Victorine  La  Bergere." 

Charmed  with  the  young  man's  facile  talent  at  cari- 
cature, of  which  he  had  often  heard,  the  Colonel  would 
not  let  him  stop  until  he  had  accorded  similar  treat- 
ment to  the  other  members  of  the  MuUin  Street  house- 
hold :  the  papa  Victor,  the  maman  Susanne,  the  young 
Victor,  who  was  one  of  the  cooks  at  the  Lafayette,  and 
Jenny,  his  ill-assimilated  wife,  whose  maiden  name 
had  been  Mahoney,  and  who  had  very  red  hair,  and 
who  had  persuaded  her  husband,  for  social,  unprofes- 
sional uses,  to  change  his  name  to  Shepherd,  which, 
she  said,  was  the  same  thing  as  the  French  word, 
which  she  could  n't  and  would  n't  pronounce,  and 
made  quite  as  decent,  American-sounding  a  name  as 
Mahoney.  But  Victorine  had  scornfully  averred  that 

99 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


if  she  wanted  to  be  honest,  she  must  change  her  name 
to  Shepherde^^;  and  refused  to  be  persuaded  that  such 
an  act  was  not  quite  as  suitable  as  the  other. 

PhiHp  had  never  talked  so  freely  and  engagingly 
before.  No  one  could  have  been  more  surprised  than 
he ;  but  as  the  Colonel  constantly  pressed  him  forward, 
he  let  the  words  carry  him  along. 

"Are  n't  there  any  other  lodgers?"  inquired  the  in- 
valid, reluctant  as  a  child  to  see  the  boy  closing  his 
book. 

"Why,  yes,  there 's  one  on  my  floor.  But  he's  not 
the  sort  to  be  inconsiderately  put  down  on  paper  and 
dismissed.  In  fact  I  have  come  to  believe  that  he  is 
quite  a  wonderful  man.  I  never  exchanged  half  a 
dozen  words  with  him  before  last  week ;  but  since  then 
I've  seen  him  several  times.  Barry,  his  name  is,  — 
tall,  gaunt,  ragged,  but  withal  very  distinguished- 
looking." 

He  made  a  few  half-random  strokes  in  the  middle 
of  a  page ;  then  appeared  to  be  seized  with  an  idea. 

"I  think  perhaps  I  could  hit  off  his  profile,  —  it's 
very  pronounced,  very  unusual." 

"What's  his  business?"  inquired  Georgia,  as  he 
bent  over  his  sketch. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  I  think  he 's  in  some  com- 
mercial laboratory.  But  I  suspect  somehow  that 's  not 
his  real  vocation.  There 's  something  a  Httle  mysteri- 
ous about  him." 

lOO 


ENCHANTED  GKOtJriJD 


^'A  mystery!  Delightful!"  cried  the  girl.  ''Do  tell 
us  some  more.'* 

"In  the  evening,"  pursued  Philip,  disjointedly,  not 
relaxing  his  attention,  "  he 's  always  doing  microscopic 
work  on  some  embryological  cross-sections  —  some 
obscure  class  of  tunicates,  I  believe." 

"Tunicates?  What  are  those,  pray?"  quizzed 
Georgia. 

"Nothing,  he  says,  of  the  least  importance  to  any 
one,  now  or  ever,  except  as  a  bit  of  research  for  pure 
science.  He  says  that  if  he  ever  found  it  was  going 
to  do  anybody  any  good,  he'd  drop  it.  Oh,  he's  no 
humanitarian,  I  can  tell  you.  He's  utterly  noncom- 
municative  about  himself;  but  I  fancy  his  life  has 
been  a  peculiarly  hard  one." 

He  held  out  the  beginnings  of  his  sketch  for  scrutiny 
at  arm's  length. 

The  girl  gave  a  low  exclamation.  "I  believe  you've 
forgotten  what  you're  doing,  PhiHp.  — Look  there." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  turned  the  Colonel's 
head  with  her  two  hands  so  that  its  patrician  profile 
was  revealed  to  him. 

"You've  borrowed  father's  forehead  and  nose." 

Philip  had  to  admit  the  resemblance. 

"I  had  never  thought  of  it  before,"  he  said,  "but 
there  is  a  kind  of  similarity  in  the  profiles.  The  build 
of  the  Colonel's  face  is  much  more  rugged,  though, 
and  his  chin,  if  I  can  judge  of  it  fairly  through  the 

lOI 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


beard,  heavier  and  firmer.  Indeed,  I  lose  the  resem- 
blance entirely  as  soon  as  your  father's  head  is  turned 
toward  me." 

''How  old  is  he?"  put  in  the  Colonel.  ''Not  my 
three-score,  I  take  it." 

"Forty-odd,  I  should  venture.  But  often  he  looks 
much  older  than  that.  He  seems  to  me  the  most  em- 
bittered man  I  ever  have  known." 

"Not  much  like  daddy  in  that,  at  all  events,"  put  in 
Georgia,  proudly,  with  a  light  kiss  upon  the  Colonel's 
forehead. 

Philip  agreed  with  her  emphatically.  "It  does  n't 
seem  to  be  anything  forced  on  him  by  adversity,"  he 
pursued ;  "but  as  if  it  were  a  very  part  and  parcel  of  his 
personality.  I  don't  know  how  to  describe  it.  I  think 
he  must  have  been  at  odds  with  the  world  from  the 
start." 

"You've  no  idea  where  he  comes  from,"  inquired 
the  Colonel,  who  was  following  the  conversation  with 
unrelaxed  interest. 

"He  spoke  one  day  of  a  collection  of  beetles  he  had 
made  when  he  was  a  boy  in  Maryland,  —  I  think  it 
was  Maryland,  I'm  not  sure.  He's  the  sort  of  man 
who  might  have  come  from  almost  an)^where." 

He  gave  another  examination  to  his  sketch;  then 
tore  it  from  the  book  with  disgust,  crumpled  it,  and 
threw  it  into  the  fireplace. 

"I  can't  make  poor  old  Barry  look  right,"  he  de- 

I02 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


dared.  "You  put  it  out  of  my  head,  Georgia,  with 
that  unhappy  comparison." 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  apologetically.  "I  should  n't 
have  interrupted ;  but  all  of  a  sudden  it  happened  to 
strike  me.  —  Why,  father,  what's  the  matter?" 

With  dismay  Philip  perceived  that  the  Colonel  had 
sunken  back  weakly  among  the  cushions,  with  his 
hand  caught  spasmodically  to  his  heart.  His  face 
was  deathly  white. 

"You're  quite  tired  out,  daddy,"  she  cried,  coming 
solicitously  to  his  side.  "It  was  wicked  of  me  to  let 
you  talk  so  much.  I  don't  see  how  I  could  have  for- 
gotten to  keep  watch  of  the  time." 

She  turned  with  an  accusing  smile  upon  their 
visitor. 

"That's  your  fault,  Philip,  for  being  so  interesting. 
That  can't  be  excused." 

"I'm  all  right,"  said  Colonel  Raeburn,  smiling  res- 
olutely. "  It  was  just  one  of  those  childish  faint  turns  I 
have  sometimes.  It 's  not  Philip's  fault  at  all.  —  Don't 
let  her  blame  you,  my  boy.  You ' ve  given  us  a  delight- 
ful evening." 

"But  you  must  be  good,  now,"  added  the  girl,  with 
gentle  peremptoriness,  "and  let  me  see  you  to  your 
room." 

The  old  man  made  no  protest.  Philip  gathered 
from  Georgia's  look  that  she  felt  more  concern  than 
her  words  implied;  and  he  judged  it  expedient  to 

103 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


hasten  his  own  departure,  that  she  might  be  at  liberty 
to  devote  herself  to  the  invalid. 

'^I  must  be  off,"  he  said.  '^  On  my  word,  I  had  not 
intended  to  stay  half  so  long.  I  hope  your  father  is  not 
seriously  overtired." 

^^Not  at  all,"  put  in  the  Colonel,  stoutly. 

The  girPs  look  thanked  him  for  his  timely  appre- 
hension of  the  situation.  "A  night's  rest,  and  he 
will  be  all  the  better  for  this  Httle  visit,  —  won't  you, 
father?" 

She  went  with  Philip  to  the  outer  door. 

*^It's  nothing,"  she  said,  confidently.  *^It's  gone 
already.  He  often  has  these  troublesome  turns  of 
weakness  —  sometimes,  like  this,  lasting  only  a  few 
seconds.  But  they  always  make  me  a  little  anxious  to 
get  him  quiet." 

"If  I  come  over  to-morrow,  after  dinner,"  sug- 
gested the  man,  "can  we  have  a  tramp  together?" 

"That  will  be  lovely,"  she  said,  and  added,  after  a 
little  pause,  "Oh,  Philip,  dear,  I'm  so  glad  you  could 
come!" 

He  would  not  touch  her  lips  again ;  but  he  seized 
her  hands  and  kissed  them,  while  a  hot  mist,  which 
she  did  not  see,  blinded  his  eyes.  The  next  instant 
he  was  gone. 


Georgia  returned  to  the  library  to  find  her  father 
on  his  feet,  leaning  against  the  mantelpiece. 

"Are  you  feeling  better  again,  dear?"  she  asked, 
anxiously. 

He  nodded  but  did  not  speak. 

"It  was  my  fault,"  she  said.  "I'm  so  sorry.  I 
never  noticed  how  tired  you  were  getting,  until  all 
of  a  sudden  when  the  attack  came  on.  I  ought  n't 
to  have  let  —  " 

She  was  continuing ;  but  he  turned  upon  her  a  look 
of  tragic  tenderness  that  caused  the  words  to  die  on 
her  lips. 

"Georgia!  Georgia!"  he  cried  out,  in  suffocated 
accents.  "What  deserts  of  mine  ever  won  me  from 
God  the  blessing  of  such  a  daughter!" 

The  dread  she  always  felt  of  his  exalted  moods 
came  upon  her.  She  tried  weakly  to  turn  the  torrent. 
She  put  out  a  hand  lightly,  caressingly,  to  the  collar 
of  his  dressing-gown. 

"  Come,  dear  daddy,"  she  said.  "Let 's  not  talk  any 
more  now.   It's  bed-time." 

He  paid  no  attention  to  her  words,  but  seized  her 
hand  in  his  own,  and  gave  it  a  vise-like  pressure. 

"Not  deserts!    No!"  he  broke  out  with  burning 
105 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


fervour.  "Infinite  riches  of  Grace!  Abundance  and 
superabundance  of  his  Mercy!  Everlasting  Love, 
ever  vouchsafed  freely,  yea,  even  unto  the  chiefest  of 
sinners!'* 

In  terror  she  strove  to  release  her  hand  from  his 
clutch.  "  Father,  father,"  she  pleaded.  "If  you  Jove 
me,  do  not  say  any  more  now.  Come  to  bed.'' 

He  stared  vaguely  for  an  instant  upon  her  quivering 
lips,  before  he  seemed  to  understand  what  she  had 
said.  Then  the  blaze  died  from  his  eyes,  and  bending 
to  her,  he  placed  a  solemn  kiss  on  her  brow. 

"Praise  ye  the  Lord,"  he  murmured,  in  a  voice  of 
unaffected  devoutness,  "for  he  is  good ;  for  his  mercy 
endureth  forever.  —  Remember  that,  Georgia,  —  for- 
ever !  —  forever !  —  Oh,  how  wonderful  are  God's 
promises!" 

He  allowed  her  to  lead  him  to  his  room,  and  so  long 
as  she  was  with  him  was  satisfied  to  talk  quietly  of  in- 
different topics.  Georgia  believed  that  she  was  leaving 
him  in  something  like  his  normal  frame  of  mind ;  and 
after  a  Httle  chat  with  Aunt  Min  —  who  had  been  sit- 
ting in  the  dining-room  all  the  evening  with  her  knit- 
ting —  she  retired  to  her  own  chamber,  a  lofty,  nar- 
row apartment,  just  across  the  hall  from  her  father's. 

She  lighted  the  lamp,  shpped  into  a  kimono,  loos- 
ened her  luxuriant  dark  coil  of  hair,  and  sat  for  a  long 
time  in  a  little  low  rocker  brushing  it  out,  and  think- 
ing. It  had  been  a  memorable  evening  in  more  ways 

1 06 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


than  one.  Being  relieved  of  any  immediate  anxiety 
in  regard  to  her  father,  her  thoughts  turned  first  to 
that  last  strange,  inexplicable  outbreak  of  his  in  the 
library.  What  could  have  so  profoundly  moved  him 
just  then  ?  He  had  been  going  to  say  something  more, 
—  she  had  seen  it  plainly,  —  when  she  had  implored 
him  to  desist.   Perhaps  about  PhiHp. 

It  seemed  more  than  possible  to  her  that  he  had  in- 
ferred the  relationship  that  existed  between  them,  and 
that  this  discovery  had  for  a  moment  overwhelmed 
him.  There  had  been  an  accent  of  gratitude,  certainly, 
in  his  voice,  quite  as  clear  as  the  stern,  Calvinistic 
self-humiliation  before  God. 

She  asked  herself  whether  it  were  quite  fair  to 
have  excluded  him  from  her  secret  so  long.  At  all 
events,  now  that  the  end  of  the  way  was  distinctly  in 
sight  for  him,  she  believed  that  he  could  only  be  happy 
in  sharing  it.  The  day  was  past  when  he  could  any 
longer  be  jealous.  He  knew  that  she  was  his  for  as 
long  as  it  was  in  her  power  to  be  his.  And  she  de- 
termined that  on  the  next  day,  when  they  came  back 
from  their  walk,  if  her  father  seemed  in  good  spirits, 
they  would  tell  him,  together. 

How  proud  she  had  been  of  Philip  that  evening,  — 
of  his  charm  of  manner,  of  his  versatility,  of  his  physi- 
cal beauty,  and  most  of  all  of  his  candid  manhness. 
For  the  first  moment  of  their  meeting  his  manner 
had  puzzled  her  —  his  seeming  hesitation,  his  silence, 

107 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


and  then  his  embrace,  so  consumingly  eager  that  at 
the  memory  of  it  she  shivered,  half  with  fright,  half 
with  rapture.  But  now  she  thought  that  she  could 
understand  even  that ;  and  she  felt  very  happy  in  the 
understanding.  How  much  he  loved  her !  What  won- 
derful, mysterious  riches  of  love  he  had  to  offer  her ! 

She  seemed  to  feel  herself  at  the  threshold  of  a  new 
experience,  vaster  and  more  beautiful  than  anything 
she  had  known  hitherto.  She  would  trust  herself  to  it 
without  fear  or  hesitation,  believing  that  she  could 
grow  to  the  measure  of  its  demands.  Love  had  never 
seemed  so  precious  nor  so  sacred  to  her  as  just  now. 

The  flame  of  her  lamp  grew  murky,  and  a  tenuous 
corkscrew  of  smoke  began  to  rise  from  the  chimney. 
The  odour  brought  her  with  astonishment  to  notice 
the  time.  It  was  already  past  midnight. 

Hastily  extinguishing  the  light,  she  made  ready  for 
bed  by  what  pale  irradiance  of  the  moon  reached  her 
through  the  bare  branches  of  the  locust  tree  outside 
her  window.  Then  she  softly  opened  the  hall-way 
door,  made  sure  that  her  night-slippers  and  bed- 
wrapper  were  within  reach,  and  crept  into  bed. 

For  a  time  she  lay  very  quietly,  and  the  last  vague 
reveries  that  precede  slumber  had  already  begun  to 
possess  her  mind,  when  she  was  startled  back  into  full 
consciousness  by  a  sound.  What  had  it  been?  She 
searched  the  lingering  sensation  of  it,  quivering  in  the 
recesses  of  memory.  A  low  cry  ?  A  groan  ?  Words  ? 

io8 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


No,  not  words.  Perhaps  her  father  had  coughed.  She 
tried  to  assure  herself  that  it  had  been  nothing  more 
than  that,  and  resolutely  closed  her  eyes  once  more. 

But  every  impulse  of  slumber  had  fled  afar.  She 
was  pretematurally  alert.  There  was  an  acute  yet 
nameless  impression  of  fear  upon  her  mind :  a  dim, 
formless  premonition  of  something.  The  horror  of  it 
grew  until  she  thought  it  would  stifle  her.  Her  brain 
ached  with  listening.  A  fit  of  shuddering  came  upon 
her.  She  lay  there  in  a  veritable  panic  of  groundless 
terror,  unable  to  think,  waiting  —  waiting  —  for 
what  ?  The  midnight  silence  of  the  great  house,  with 
its  tall,  vacant  hall-ways  and  spectral  stairs,  invaded 
her  imagination  like  a  hostile  being,  ready  to  leap 
upon  her  and  annihilate  her. 

Trembling  from  head  to  foot,  but  resolved  at  all 
costs  to  master  her  causeless  fright,  she  slipped  from 
bed  and  noiselessly  groped  her  way  into  the  hall. 
Directly  opposite  she  could  make  out  the  tall  black 
oblong  of  an  open  doorway.  She  tiptoed  across  to  it, 
and  stood  for  a  few  seconds  crushed  against  the  wall, 
listening  in  the  darkness  for  her  father's  breathing. 

Yes,  she  could  distinguish  it  now.  But  it  was  not 
the  regular,  placid  breathing  of  sleep.  It  was  spas- 
modic, hard,  broken.  The  skin  of  all  her  body 
prickled  as  she  suddenly  realized  to  what  she  was 
listening.  In  the  darkness  and  solitude  of  midnight 
her  father  was  sobbing. 

109 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Her  blood  ran  cold.  She  would  have  fled  to  her 
room  again;  but  she  was  powerless  to  move.  She 
could  do  nothing  but  listen,  in  an  anguish  of  helpless 
s)mipathy,  to  a  sound  more  tragically  heart-breaking 
than  ever  in  her  life  she  had  heard  before,  —  yes,  even 
than  the  delirious  screams  she  had  once  heard  from 
the  fever-stricken  chamber  of  her  dying  mother. 

There  was  the  slight  sound  of  a  creaking  bed-spring 
as  the  old  man  changed  his  position,  and  then  a 
strained,  pulsing  silence,  in  which  she  pictured  him 
struggling,  with  all  his  titanic  force  of  will,  to  regain 
his  self-control.  Then,  through  the  darkness,  he  cried 
out:  — 

"O  God,  cast  me  not  away  in  thine  anger!" 

The  words  of  his  supplication  were  uttered  scarcely 
above  a  whisper;  but  they  shivered  through  her  soul 
like  destroying  lightnings.  She  reeled,  and  caught 
herself  by  the  baluster-post,  which  creaked  ominously. 
She  had  a  horror  of  being  found  there,  eavesdropping 
upon  her  father's  agony.  Feeling  her  way  along  the 
floor  with  her  hands,  she  half  crept,  half  flew  to  her 
room,  and  hid  herself  among  the  bedclothes,  her  chat- 
tering teeth  crushed  against  the  pillow. 

The  house  was  very  still  again,  with  the  pregnant, 
heavy  stillness  that  follows  or  precedes  tragedy.  The 
white  moonlight  still  poured  in  a  level  flood  through 
the  bare  branches  of  the  locust  tree  and  fell  in  broken 
radiance  over  the  foot  of  the  bed.   She  heard  one  of 

no 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


the  horses  moving  restlessly  in  his  stable,  far  from 
the  house.  She  thought  of  Philip,  and  wished  that  his 
arms  might  be  about  her  in  that  hour  of  dread.  And 
with  the  thought  of  the  enfolding  strength  and  cour- 
age of  his  love,  which  was  hers  wherever  he  might  be, 
through  whatever  dark  ways  she  might  have  to  tread, 
her  exhausted  senses  began  to  relax,  and  a  solemn 
peace  came  over  her,  which  once  more  prepared  her 
for  the  healing  ministrations  of  sleep. 


XI 

If  for  appearance*  sake  Philip  was  a  nominal  guest 
of  the  Burchells  during  his  rare  visits  to  Folkbridge, 
it  was  at  Miss  Wetherell's  that  he  was  most  frequently 
to  be  found.  With  Aunt  Prudence  he  came  very  close 
to  the  old  hfe  that  meant  so  much  to  him.  The  house 
was  full  of  happy  memories,  tinged  with  a  melancholy 
of  time  and  change  that  even  more  endeared  them. 

Reminders  of  his  father  were  on  every  hand,  jeal- 
ously cherished  by  little  Aunt  Prue.  She  even  pre- 
served on  the  walls  of  her  tiny  sewing-room  upstairs 
the  yellowed  certificate  of  his  graduation  from  Phil- 
lips-Andover  and  his  Yale  diploma.  She  had  a  fond, 
familiar  way  of  talking  of  him,  too,  almost  as  if  he 
were  still  a  living  presence  in  the  house.  The  fact  that 
he  was  dead  had  never  become  so  much  a  reality  to 
her  as  the  fact  that  he  had  been  alive. 

It  had  been  so  untimely,  his  death,  so  utterly  with- 
out warning,  that  even  now  it  often  seemed  to  her  that 
perhaps  it  had  not  really  happened  at  all,  and  that  at 
any  moment  he  might  come  with  his  alert,  athletic 
stride  up  the  front  path  from  the  gate,  and  enter  the 
house  as  in  the  old  days,  whistHng. 

A  group  of  half-drunken  strikers  had  gathered  in 
the  mill-yard,  and  they  had  sent  in  a  brawling  chal- 

112 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


lenge  to  the  officials  of  the  company  to  come  out  and 
talk  terms  with  them.  No  one  had  made  a  move  to 
accept  their  invitation.  The  men  were  known  to  be  in 
a  dangerous  mood.  At  last  the  newly  appointed  super- 
intendent, John  Wetherell,  had  risen  to  his  feet  with 
an  abrupt,  confident  determination. 

"If  we  lack  the  courage  to  put  trust  in  the  honesty 
of  the  men,  how  can  we  ask  them  to  put  trust  in  our 
honesty?"  he  had  demanded,  and  with  a  fearless 
smile  he  had  gone  out,  to  fall  dead,  shot  through 
the  heart,  before  he  had  spoken  another  word. 

Philip  would  never  forget,  so  long  as  he  lived,  the 
gallant  beauty  of  his  father's  dead  face  as  the  men 
who  brought  him  home  Hfted  the  dark  blanket  that 
covered  their  burden.  The  day  was  the  eleventh  of 
May,  thirteen  years  ago,  and  the  meeting-house  clock 
had  just  struck  noon.  Everything  that  went  before 
that  moment  in  the  boy's  life  was  sharply  distinct 
from  everything  that  came  after,  wearing  a  soft,  far- 
away radiance,  as  if  belonging  to  another  sphere  of 
existence. 

No  day  of  the  year's  cycle  could  call  old  memories 
more  potently  into  life  than  Thanksgiving,  the  high 
ancestral  feast.  In  New  England  it  is  preeminently 
the  day  with  the  home-feeling.  It  is  the  reunion  day 
of  past  and  present :  the  celebration  of  the  past's  no- 
bility, the  declaration  of  the  present's  loyalty.  No  day 
could  so  thrill  Philip  with  pride  to  know  himself  a 

"3 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


product  of  New  England's  three  centuries  of  struggle 
and  faith.  And  another  quality  of  the  feast  that 
greatly  appealed  to  him  was  its  cheerful,  robust  this- 
worldliness,  its  wholesome  savour  of  the  soil.  No  crav- 
ing of  release  from  our  poor  mortality,  but  rather  an 
honest  glor)dng  in  its  rich  possibilities !  Let  us  bless 
God  together  that  the  fruits  of  the  ripened  year  are 
garnered  and  heaped  by,  and  that  we  may  properly 
enjoy  them ! 

To-day,  until  it  should  be  time  to  make  ready  for 
church,  Philip  gave  his  assistance  to  Aunt  Prue  in  her 
garden,  tying  up  her  precious  rose-bushes  in  sheaves 
of  straw,  and  setting  out  a  new  border  of  daffodils 
between  the  path  and  the  grape-arbour. 

"How  I  delight  in  the  November  garden,"  said 
little  Aunt  Prue.  "  It  reminds  me  of  a  child's  nursery 
at  the  end  of  the  afternoon,  where  playthings  of  all 
sorts  are  left  scattered  about,  waiting  quietly  for  the 
mother  to  come  and  put  them  away  for  the  night." 

Aunt  Prue  had  a  vein  of  whimsical,  wayward 
humour  and  she  liked  to  indulge  it  with  her  nephew. 
She  stood  beside  him  in  apron  and  dog-skin  gloves, 
a  man's  working-cap  with  ear-lappets  absurdly  pulled 
down  over  her  small  head ;  and  she  punctiliously  in- 
dicated, with  the  tip  of  an  old  umbrella,  the  spot 
where  he  was  next  to  place  a  bulb. 

"It  always  seems  to  me,"  said  Aunt  Prue,  digging  a 
neat  little  hole  with  her  indicator,  "an  explicit  act  of 

114 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


faith  to  put  a  seed  or  a  bulb  in  the  ground  at  this  time 
of  year.  I  believe  the  Lord  must  attribute  it  unto 
us  for  righteousness.  What  reason  have  we  for  be- 
lieving that  this  lump  of  brown  scales,  with  its  white 
heart,  will  sleep  safe  and  warm  through  the  frozen 
months  ahead,  to  wake  with  the  first  rains  —  *  before 
the  swallow  dares'?  I  vow,  it  astounds  me  every 
day  to  see  how  much  faith  we  unregenerate  creatures 
have,  after  all.  Every  act  of  the  day  is  an  act  of 
trust  —  an  expression  of  confidence  in  the  honesty 
and  reliability  of  the  Universe.  Did  you  ever  think 
of  that?" 

She  was  a  rare  little  personage.  Aunt  Prudence, 
still  scarcely  beyond  middle  age,  trim,  dainty,  choice 
of  diction,  sincerely  pious,  devoted  to  good  works,  a 
visitor  of  the  sick,  a  friend  of  the  needy.  Secretary  of 
the  Home  Missionary  Society,  and  President  of  the 
local  branch  of  the  Seaman's  Gospel  Association. 
The  latter  was  by  all  odds  her  favourite  philanthropy. 
Had  God  willed  her  to  be  a  man,  she  declared,  she 
would  certainly  have  stuffed  her  clothes  into  a  pillow- 
case and  run  away  to  sea  —  a  hardy  stowaway.  Life 
before  the  mast  appealed  to  her  much  more  power- 
fully than  the  life  of  the  saints  in  bliss.  All  seamen, 
indeed,  were  the  adopted  children  of  her  heart ;  and 
it  was  an  inconsolable  regret  of  hers  that  Providence 
had  ordained  her  lot  among  inland  hills,  far  from 
sounding  surf  and  white  sails. 

"5 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


One  of  her  first  questions  to  Philip  that  morning 
had  been  in  regard  to  the  life  of  the  water-front  in  New 
York.  Did  he  often  see  the  ships  come  in?  Did  he 
sometimes  hear  the  sailors  talking  their  quaint  jargon 
along  the  wharves?  Portuguese,  she  thought,  must 
be  a  very  interesting  language. 

But  just  now  her  mind  was  absorbed  with  the  set- 
ting of  bulbs. 

"I  wonder,"  she  ventured,  with  a  pensive  smile,  as 
she  put  the  last  of  her  store  into  Philip's  hand,  ^'I 
wonder  is  the  little  bulb  conscious,  somehow,  of  the 
lovely  secret  in  its  heart?  Does  it  feel  the  stirring 
within  it  of  the  Resurrection  Day  as  the  cold  earth 
closes  in  over  its  head  ?  With  us  it  is  only  that  know- 
ledge that  makes  death  anything  else  than  a  terror.  It 
does  not  seem  to  me,  indeed,  that  I  could  bear  to  be  a 
bulb  unless  I  knew  that  some  day  I  should  hear  the 
voice  of  Life,  bidding  me  come  forth  from  the  tomb. 
Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,  nephew,  that  in  their  first 
appearance  above  ground  the  little  spring  things 
still  seem  to  be  wearing  their  grave  clothes  tight 
bound  about  them,  like  so  many  lowly  brothers  of 
Lazarus?" 

"You  ought  to  have  been  a  poet.  Aunt  Prudence," 
said  Philip,  with  admiring  affection,  as  he  completed 
his  labours. 

She  beamed  with  pleasure.  "Do  you  think  so?" 
she  asked.  "I  have  my  little  ideas,  which  amuse  me; 

ii6 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


but  I  don't  seem  to  find  it  easy  to  talk  of  them  to  most 
people.  With  you  it's  different.  I  know  you  won't 
laugh  at  me.   In  that  you're  like  your  father." 

They  walked  leisurely  toward  the  house.  She  felt 
very  proud  of  her  manly  nephew,  and  looked  up  at 
him,  from  under  the  enormous  visor  of  her  working- 
cap,  with  glistening  eyes. 

"You're  so  like  him  in  many  ways,  Philip.  You 
have  his  modesty.  I  verily  believe  you've  no  least 
notion  how  handsome  you  are.  I  don't  see  how  the 
young  belles  of  the  city  can  help  losing  their  hearts  to 
you.  I  dare  say  they  do,  for  that  matter,  but  that 
you're  too  shy  to  know  it." 

Philip  blushed  hotly,  and  was  glad  that  Aunt  Prue 
had  stooped  to  peer  under  a  great  soap-box  at  a  clump 
of  foxglove. 

"By  the  way,"  she  said,  very  demurely,  —  "or 
rather,  apropos  of  nothing,  as  they  say,  have  you  hap- 
pened to  see  Georgia  Raebum  yet?" 

"I  am  going  out  to  Highstone  this  afternoon,"  an- 
swered Philip. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  little  lady,  with  the  most  be- 
guiling simplicity  in  the  world. 

They  resumed  their  walk,  and  had  almost  reached 
the  house  before  she  spoke  again. 

"By  the  way,"  she  said,  —  "or  rather,  apropos  of 
nothing,  I  heard  some  one  come  cantering  down  the 
bridge  road  last  night  about  half-past  ten.  I  wonder 

117 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


who  it  would  have  been,  there  's  so  little  riding  here- 
abouts at  night." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  and  Philip  surrendered 
with  a  laugh  and  a  blush.  The  next  instant  he  realized 
with  painful  acuteness  that  he  had  seemed  to  admit 
more  than  he  had  any  right  to  admit  now.  But  before 
he  could  find  words  to  correct  his  error,  his  aunt 
turned  to  him  with  a  look  of  tenderest  affection. 

"Georgia  is  a  wonderful  girl,  my  boy,"  she  said, 
"a  very  capable  girl,  intelligent,  beautiful,  devoted, 
and  above  all  —  good.  I  don't  know  what  better  prize 
I  could  covet  for  you." 

At  twenty  minutes  past  ten  they  were  ready  to  set 
out  for  church.  Aunt  Prudence  had  donned  a  deli- 
ciously  old-fashioned  bonnet,  with  velvet  strings  under 
the  chin,  and  her  small  hands,  delicate  and  soft  as  a 
girl's,  wore  gloves  of  white  silk.  It  was  one  of  her 
whims  to  be  a  little  quaint ;  and  the  fashion  of  another 
day  became  her  marvellously.  She  gave  Philip  her 
Bible  to  carry,  and  they  joined  the  village  procession 
already  on  its  way  toward  the  white  meeting-house. 

Neighbours  greeted  each  other  at  gateways,  and  fell 
into  line.  Philip  was  recognized  and  welcomed  all 
along  the  route  by  old  friends,  who  invariably  ex- 
pressed astonishment  at  the  way  he  had  grown. 

"So  ye  're  livin'  way  off  to  New  York,"  quoth  old 
Sally  Blodgett,  almost  bent  double  over  a  cane.  "  Well, 
well!— Well  well!" 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


She  indulged  in  a  wise  cackle  of  laughter  through 
mumblecrust  gums.  It  seemed  to  Philip  that  she  was 
the  one  thing  that  remained  unchanged  out  of  the  old 
world.  She  had  always  been  just  as  old,  just  as  bent, 
as  that.  He  remembered  how,  at  the  funeral  of  his 
father,  she  had  hobbled  up  amongst  the  throng  for  a 
last  look  at  the  dead  face,  and  suddenly  broken  out 
into  wild  sobbing. 

Sally  was  shaking  her  head  still,  with  a  sage  doubt 
of  these  modem  ways.  "I  never  could  see,"  she  prof- 
fered, **why  anybody  wants  to  live  clear  way  off  there 
for.'' 

In  every  face  that  morning,  so  Philip  thought,  there 
was  to  be  seen  a  subdued,  self-respecting  joyousness. 
The  slanting  sunlight  of  Indian  summer  filtered  its 
soft  radiance  through  the  intemetted  branches  of  the 
tall  elms  that  lined  the  street.  In  front  dooryards  the 
grass  was  yet  green,  and  Aunt  Prudence  discovered, 
with  a  little  cry  of  delight,  a  belated  dandelion,  blos- 
soming close  to  the  ground  by  the  sidewalk.  She  made 
Philip  put  it  in  his  buttonhole. 

"I  suppose,"  said  she,  "that  finding  itself  alone,  all, 
all  alone  in  a  leafless,  flowerless  world,  it  must  think 
mighty  well  of  itself.  Probably  it  imagines  it  is  the 
first  of  its  kind  in  creation,  instead  of  being  only  the 
last  and  least  of  the  year." 

As  they  reached  the  little  ascent  that  led  to  the 
ancient  meeting-house,  a  severe,  square-windowed, 

119 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


green-blinded  structure  like  all  of  its  kind  in  New 
England,  but  fronted  and  set  off  by  a  steeple  of  beauti- 
ful proportions  and  exquisite  delicacy  of  ornament,  a 
phaeton  passed  them ;  and  Philip  turned  just  in  time 
to  see  Georgia  and  Aunt  Min.  Georgia  held  reins 
and  whip  handsomely.  He  had  always  loved  to  see 
her  with  a  horse.  The  pose  was  one  that  became  her 
well,  answering  to  the  aristocratic  distinction  of  her 
beauty,  —  erect,  confident,  with  animated  counte- 
nance into  which  the  November  air  had  brought  a 
vivid  bloom,  her  lips  superbly  arched,  her  head 
slightly  thrown  back,  her  gauntleted  hands  held  well 
forward  on  the  lines.  His  heart  bounded  with  pride 
as  she  gave  him  a  quick,  smiling  salutation ;  then  the 
same  old  mantle  of  shame  enveloped  him. 

How  vile,  how  inexplicably  perverse  his  secret 
seemed  on  a  day  and  in  a  setting  like  this !  He  could 
almost  believe  that  the  thing  had  never  taken  place. 
A  furtive  impulse  came  to  him  to  put  it  away  from 
him,  to  say  nothing,  to  act  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. But  the  impulse  passed  as  quickly  as  it  came. 
They  had  always  been  honest  with  each  other.  He 
would  not  embark  upon  deceit  now.  He  would  let 
this  lie  live  in  his  bosom  no  longer. 

After  Aunt  Prue  he  walked  soberly  down  the  red- 
carpeted  aisle  and  entered  the  pew  of  memories,  sit- 
ting in  the  place  his  father  had  always  occupied.  The 
congregation  rose  for  the  singing  of  Old  Hundred  and 

1 20 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


the  invocation ;  then  followed  the  responsive  reading 
from  the  Psalter. 

"I  was  glad  when  they  said  unto  me,  Let  us  go  into 
the  house  of  the  Lord.  Our  feet  shall  stand  within 
thy  gates,  O  Jerusalem." 

The  rich  familiar  words  fell  upon  his  ears  like 
voices  out  of  another  world ;  and  a  choking  sensation, 
which  he  could  not  get  rid  of,  came  into  his  throat. 
Once  more  he  was  a  very  small  boy,  sitting  between 
stately  Aunt  Prue  and  his  heroically  proportioned 
father,  waiting  in  eager  expectation  for  the  dramatic 
moment  when  old  Dr.  Stickney  should  portentously 
unfold  the  Governor's  Proclamation,  sealed  with  the 
great  seal  of  the  State  of  Connecticut.  Whither  had 
the  years  swept  it  all  away?  Where  v\rere  the  other 
three  of  the  five  who  had  once  filled  the  pew?  And 
what  had  happened  to  Aunt  Prue,  whom  he  now  per- 
ceived beside  him,  a  mere  mite  of  a  lady,  demurely 
munching  a  meeting-seed  ? 

And  himself !  How  abundantly  he  had  eaten  of  the 
Tree  of  Knowledge  of  Good  and  Evil,  the  first  fruits 
of  which  were  Shame !  How  little  he  had  dreamed,  in 
those  days,  that  a  day  would  come  when  he  should  be 
sitting  here  alone  with  Aunt  Prue,  devoured  by  a  fes- 
tering secret  that  made  every  observance  of  the  festi- 
val a  mockery!  The  anthem,  the  scripture  lesson,  the 
sermon,  all  were  lost  upon  him.  He  was  thinking  bit- 
terly, while  the  tears  still  itched  at  the  back  of  his 

121 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


eyes;  and  a  resolution  for  the  future,  stronger  than 
any  that  had  preceded  it,  was  taking  form  in  his  heart. 
But  this  was  in  the  land  of  hills  and  memories.  It 
was  within  sight  of  the  girl  who  was  going  to  forgive 
him  and  would  be  henceforth  a  strength  and  inspira- 
tion that  had  never  been  possible  before.  And  it  was 
far  away  —  farther  in  years  than  in  miles  —  from  the 
subtle  nets  of  temptation,  spread  day  and  night  in  the 
City  for  the  feet  of  the  Young  Men. 


XII 

They  were  sitting  on  a  knob  of  rock  just  below  the 
crest  of  Yelping  Hill.  Already  the  afternoon  was  far 
spent,  and  across  the  purple  meadows  below,  a  thin 
trail  of  mist  was  gathering.  The  rays  of  the  sun  came 
to  them  wanly  from  a  point  close  to  the  western  moun- 
tain-rim. 

The  man  was  staring  hard  at  the  ground.  His  face 
was  set  in  lines  of  pain  that  distorted  the  mouth  and 
put  deep  creases  about  the  eyes.  His  companion  sat 
a  little  distance  from  him,  with  her  back  partly  turned ; 
and  she  was  gazing  out  across  the  dream-like  country 
below,  seeing  nothing.  The  silence  that  had  come  be- 
tween them  since  he  had  ceased  speaking  had  grown 
almost  terrifying;  yet  no  words  would  form  them- 
selves on  her  dry  lips. 

"Georgia,  Georgia!'*  he  groaned,  at  last,  digging 
his  heel  hard  into  the  damp  earth.  "Are  n't  you  going 
to  say  anything?" 

Another  silence.  She  sat  there  like  one  petrified. 
Her  stunned  brain  seemed  to  know  nothing  but  a  dull 
suffering.  Yet  she  must  speak.  Something  must  be 
said.  She  clutched  her  hands  together  until  they  hurt, 
struggling  to  force  down  the  strangling  knot  in  her 
throat. 

123 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


''What  is  there  to  say  —  Philip?''  she  asked.  Her 
voice  did  not  seem  like  a  real  voice:  it  was  the 
shrunken,  bodiless  ghost  of  a  voice,  blown  to  him 
across  countless  miles. 

"Say  that  it's  not  all  over,"  he  cried,  with  impas- 
sioned vehemence.  "Can't  you  say  that?  Surely,  — 
Georgia!  — can't  you  say  that?" 

"No,"  —  she  answered  with  a  shudder  —  "I  can't 
say  that." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  it  is  all  over  ?  You  're  not  going 
to  let  me  try  again?" 

She  set  her  chin  upon  the  back  of  her  hands,  and 
stared  unseeingly  at  the  dimmed  horizon. 

"I  mean  that  you've  killed  everything  in  me  that 
once  cared  for  you." 

Each  word  was  heartlessly  distinct,  articulated 
with  a  separate  and  painful  effort. 

The  man  let  his  head  sink  between  his  knees,  and 
his  body  was  shaken  with  uncontrollable  spasms  of 
emotion.  But  no  betrayal  of  it  issued  from  his  locked 
lips.  It  may  be  she  guessed  that  her  words  had  broken 
him  as  his,  but  a  few  minutes  earlier,  had  broken  her ; 
but  she  took  no  pains  to  inform  herself  of  the  fact. 
Still  her  eyes  gazed  eastward  undeviatingly. 

"Perhaps  what  you  did,  didn't  seem  like  very 
much  to  you,"  she  forced  herself  to  continue,  finally, 
believing  that  he  had  a  right  to  know  her  thought. 
"Oh,  I  dare  say  I'm  old-fashioned  and  provincial. 

124 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


I  know  it  does  seem  a  small  thing  to  a  great  many 
people." 

"It  did  n't  seem  small  to  me,"  broke  out  her  com- 
panion. "I  tried  to  tell  you  that.  I  thought  I  had 
made  that  clear.  It  seemed  to  me  the  most  degrading, 
most  disloyal  thing  I  had  ever  done  or  could  do." 

She  gave  a  little  mirthless,  cutting  laugh. 

"And  you  chose  to  do  this  most  degrading,  most 
disloyal  thing  the  very  night  you  heard  I  was  in 
trouble." 

There  was  an  interval  of  silence.  Her  accusation 
was  unanswerable.  He  had  no  thought  of  going  over 
the  ground  again.  To  urge  mitigating  circumstances 
would  be  only  cowardice  at  this  point.  The  bare  fact 
was  as  she  had  declared  it.  She  was  not  unjust,  even 
if  she  was  without  pity. 

"And  after  you  had  done  it,"  she  went  on, — "how 
many  days  after  ?  —  six  ?  —  five  ?  —  you  came  to  me, 
and  took  me  in  your  arms,  and  — "  She  choked  at  the 
word,  and  it  was  never  uttered. 

The  man  groaned.  "I  insulted  you  in  every  way  I 
could  devise.  I  hate  myself  for  it.  I  loathe  myself  for 
a  sneak  and  a  cad." 

"And  so,"  she  asked,  after  another  brief  pause,  in 
a  voice  of  unsparing  irony,  "and  so  you  think  it  would 
be  natural  and  altogether  desirable  for  me  to  keep  on 
loving  you." 

"I  don't  ask  that.  No,  —  not  love  me,  —  you 
125 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


could  n't  do  that  now.  I  see  it  well  enough.  I  did  n't 
see  it  at  first.  But  at  least  be  a  little  sorry  for  me,  — 
could  n't  you  be  that?  And  trust  me  a  little?" 

"I  don't  see  any  grounds  for  trusting  you  again.  I 
do  not  see  what  better  reason  I  could  offer  you  now 
for  being  true  than  I  have  offered  in  the  past.  You 
chose  to  do  what  you  did.  You  took  time  —  several 
hours  —  to  think  it  over  first.  —  No !  No !  everything 
inside  me  is  hard,  hard,  hard  toward  you.  Oh,  it 
makes  me  sick  to  think  I  let  you  touch  me,  and  that 
I  was  so  —  so  happy,^^ 

A  spasm  of  revulsion  seized  her,  and  she  sprang  to 
her  feet,  saying  in  a  voice  of  ice,  "I  suppose  we  might 
as  well  be  going  home." 

This  was  the  man  she  had  given  herself  to !  This 
was  the  man  the  very  sound  of  whose  voice  had 
thrilled  her  with  ecstasy ;  the  man  whose  arms  she  had 
longed  for,  to  be  her  strength  and  protection  through 
the  dark  valleys ! 

They  took  their  way  down  through  the  fields  on 
the  shadowed  side  of  the  hill.  There  was  a  creeping 
frostiness  in  the  atmosphere  that  made  her  pull  her 
sweater  tight  about  her  neck.  There  was  nothing 
to  say,  and  in  mutual  recognition  of  the  fact  they 
avoided  the  mockery  of  empty  small  talk,  and  walked 
in  silence. 

So  they  came  to  the  border  of  the  first  field,  where 
a  thicket  of  alder  and  witch-hazel  screened  an  an- 

126 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


cient  stone  wall.  The  alder  thrust  sturdily  aloft,  like 
tiny  mailed  fists,  a  thousand  iron-black,  rust-tipped 
cones.  The  witch-hazel  hung  out  upon  its  slender 
branches  a  countless  multitude  of  exiguous  pale  yel- 
low bannerets,  shyest  yet  hardiest  blossomings  of  the 
annual  pageant,  shedding  upon  the  November  air  a 
faint,  arresting  fragrance,  once  known,  never  to  be 
mistaken.  While  winter  even  now  jangles  his  icy 
manacles  in  the  valley  below,  creeping  stealthily, 
resistlessly  to  the  hill-tops,  bringing  captivity  and 
death,  this  debonair  rearguard  of  the  flown  season 
flings  undauntedly  back  her  final  challenge.  *^  These 
lives  shall  yet  be  numbered  for  me,"  she  cries;  and 
still  the  white  tyrant  stays  his  work. 

As  the  pungent  fragrance  of  the  mysterious  flower 
struck  upon  her  sense,  Georgia  caught  her  breath 
with  an  involuntary  sob.  This  was  among  the  dear 
delights  they  had  projected  —  to  stand  together  in 
the  presence  of  the  witch-hazel,  to  gather  an  armful 
of  it  for  the  beautification  of  the  house. 

Philip  turned  upon  her  a  look  of  shy  appeal,  nurs- 
ing in  his  bosom  a  quick,  inarticulate  hope  that  she 
would  remember,  and  give  a  sign.  But  he  saw  no 
sign.  With  head  thrown  back  and  lips  confidently 
set,  she  deliberately  pressed  ahead  of  him,  parted 
the  thicket  with  her  hands,  and  leaped  upon  the 
stone  wall,  agile,  assured,  with  the  lithe  grace  of  a 
chamois.  His  last  hope  had  been  slain. 

127 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


Two  more  fields,  each  with  its  bounding  stone  wall, 
and  they  gained  the  highway. 

The  dusk  had  fallen  rapidly.  They  seemed  to  be 
the  only  two  living  beings  abroad  in  all  that  melan- 
choly land,  so  terribly  alone  together,  and  yet  so 
many  leagues  asunder.  Here  and  there  a  light,  ap- 
pearing in  a  farm-house  window,  bore  witness  to  the 
homely  cheer  within. 

This  was  Thanksgiving  Day.  The  thought  came 
to  Georgia  with  a  sudden,  cruel  poignancy.  This 
was  the  ancestral  feast,  the  feast  of  loyalty  and  grati- 
tude. Every  one  else  was  rejoicing.  They  two  only 
were  outside,  —  outcast. 

They  reached  the  dismantled  gates  of  Highstone 
and  entered  the  dark  avenue  under  the  evergreens  and 
locusts.  Still  not  a  word  had  been  exchanged  between 
them.  At  moments  a  grim  humour  in  the  situation 
came  to  her  so  forcibly  that  she  could  almost  have 
burst  into  mirthless,  sardonic  laughter.  But  even  the 
cynic  in  her  could  not  quite  laugh  while  the  sting  of 
anguish  was  still  in  this  first  intensity. 

They  came  within  sight  of  the  house.  A  ruddy 
light  shone  through  the  windows  of  the  library.  Her 
father  was  there,  doubtless,  awaiting  their  return.  A 
stem,  bitter  thankfulness  rose  up  in  her  that  she  had 
not  told  him  of  her  engagement.  Ah,  this  was  her 
Thanksgiving!  She  was  not  excluded  from  the  feast 
after  all !  Whatever  there  was  to  be  suffered,  she  was 

128 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


able  to  suffer  alone  and  in  secret.  She  remembered 
her  father,  wrestling  with  some  nameless  angel  of 
despair  in  the  solitude  of  night.  The  same  blood 
ran  in  her  veins.  Her  despair  should  be  as  nobly, 
as  proudly  entertained,  as  resolutely  confined  to  her 
own  bosom. 

At  the  porch  Philip  turned  to  her  with  an  air  of 
studied  indifference,  and  tried  to  say  good-by.  He 
failed  dismally.  He  would  not  have  recognized  his 
own  voice  for  its  throaty  dryness. 

"Well,  I  suppose  this  is  good-by,"  were  his  words. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  hardly,  not  offering  her  hand. 
"I  suppose  it  is.  I  hope  I  shall  never  have  to  see  you 
again." 

She  mounted  the  steps  with  the  leisurely,  confident 
grace  of  a  king's  daughter,  and  entered  the  house 
without  turning  her  face. 


XIII 

From  young  Victor,  Victorine  and  her  sister-in-law, 
Jenny  La  Bergere,  alias  Shepherd  (or,  as  Victorine 
stoutly  maintained,  Shepherdess),  had  received  the 
present  of  two  balcony  tickets  to  the  Hippodrome, 
for  the  afternoon  after  Thanksgiving.  Victorine,  who 
was  rarely  to  be  found  outside  her  kitchen,  was 
declaring  that  she  did  not  see  how  she  could  possibly 
arrange  to  go  to  that  place,  leaving  the  old  papa  and 
the  old  maman  all  to  themselves. 

"What  does  my  brother  think,  I  wonder!"  she  de- 
manded. —  "That  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  go  running 
around  after  mermaids  and  trick  horses  and  all  those 
fooHsh  things?  If  you  will  tell  me  how  I  can  find 
time  for  that,  I  will  be  thankful." 

Although  she  did  not  deign  to  look  up  from  the 
kitchen  table  which  she  was  vigorously  scrubbing 
with  a  pumice-stone,  her  challenge  was  presumably 
addressed  to  Jenny,  who  stood  languidly  in  the  door- 
way, dressed  in  a  much-beruffled  morning-wrapper, 
her  red  hair  still  in  crimpers.  The  two  old  ones 
occupied  their  customary  stations,  the  papa  at  one 
side  of  the  range,  his  two  gnarled  hands  resting  on  a 
stout  cane,  his  head  trembling  slightly,  as  always,  on 
its  pipestem  of  a  neck;  the  maman  Susanne  deep 

130 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


in  her  padded  chair  in  the  comer.  The  energetic 
scrape  of  the  pumice-stone  and  the  scrub-brush, 
ocular  proof  of  her  immense  business,  belonged  pro- 
perly to  Victorine's  sentence.  The  muscles  stood  out 
on  her  large  arms ;  her  face  was  red  with  exertion 
and  defiance. 

For  an  instant  only  she  relaxed  her  labour,  to  rest  her 
hands  on  her  hips  and  accord  a  rapid,  contemptuous 
scrutiny  to  Jenny's  matutinal  attire. 

"For  some  people,"  she  announced,  crisply,  with 
a  little  snort,  ^'who  have  nothing  to  do  in  the  world 
but  dress  styUsh  and  spend  money,  those  Hippo- 
dromes may  be  all  very  well." 

Between  the  Shepherdess  and  the  thrifty,  indefati- 
gable Victorine  existed  an  ever-smouldering  hostility 
which  sometimes  came  near  to  flame.  The  two  were 
well  matched,  however.  If  Victorine  had  her  con- 
temptuous little  snort,  Jenny  had  her  supercilious 
little  sniff,  and  used  it  with  especial  readiness  because 
she  knew  that  it  was  excessively  well  bred. 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  she  added,  with  a  smile  of  superior 
amusement.  "I  know  just  how  hard  it  must  be  for 
you  to  get  off.  Perhaps  after  all  it  will  not  be  worth 
the  trouble.  I  hope  you  will  feel  perfectly  free  to  give 
it  up." 

Victorine  gave  her  a  crushing  look.  "Will  you  tell 
me,"  she  demanded,  '^you  who  know  all  about  such 
things,  if  it  would  be  good  manners  for  me  to  give  it  up, 

131 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


when  my  poor  brother  has  already  bought  the  ticket 
forme?" 

To  give  it  up  was  indeed  the  last  thought  in  Vic- 
torine's  head.  She  was  consumed  with  curiosity  in 
regard  to  these  wonderful  soaring  ladies,  diving  mer- 
maids, and  dancing  flowers  of  which  she  had  heard 
so  often,  and  which  Jenny  authoritatively  declared  to 
be  the  swellest  thing  that  had  ever  hit  New  York. 
But  to  make  admission  of  that  curiosity  was  by  no 
means  Victorine's  way. 

^*0h,  for  that  matter,"  said  Jenny,  with  mordant 
gentleness,  "I'm  sure  Victor  wouldn't  mind  if  you 
returned  the  ticket,  my  dear,  and  spent  the  money  for 
some  useful  thing.  He  is  very  sweet  in  those  ways. 
Though  I  can't  tell  you  how  I'd  hate  to  have  to  go 
without  you." 

Victorine  clicked  her  teeth  together,  and  seemed 
to  speak  without  so  much  as  opening  her  mouth.  "At 
half-past  one  I  shall  be  ready,  my  dear.    Voila !" 

The  scrubbing  was  resumed  so  vindictively  that 
Jenny's  final  retort  —  if  she  made  one :  she  probably 
did  —  was  quite  lost  in  the  uproar.  At  last,  however, 
the  labour  of  cleanliness  was  completed,  and  a  strange 
quiet  supervened.  Jenny  had  disappeared.  Victor- 
ine's  temper  had  evidently  worked  itself  out. 

Turning  solicitously  to  her  father  from  the  sink, 
over  which  she  had  just  replaced  her  housewife's  bat- 
tery, she  inquired,  — 

132 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"You  will  be  comfortable,  mon  p^re?  Since  it  ap- 
pears to  be  necessary  for  me  to  go  to  that  Hippo- 
drome of  theirs,  you  promise  that  you  will  be  good  — 
tres,  tres  sage  —  that  you  will  not  go  to  the  corner?'' 

The  old  man  nodded  with  the  most  irreproachable 
docility. 

"Oui,  ma  Torine,"  he  replied,  reassuringly.  "You 
may  trust  the  old  papa.   He  will  not  do  anything." 

"  Good,"  she  commented.  "And  is  the  little  mother 
going  to  be  sage,  too?  She  will  not  get  to  coughing 
—  no?  —  while  her  Torine  is  away?" 

"  Non,  ma  Torine,"  came  the  thin,  faithful  response. 
"You  may  trust  the  old  maman.  She  is  going  to  be 
good,  good." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Mademoiselle,  with  a  sigh  of 
seeming  reluctance,  "well,  then,  I  suppose  it  will  be 
all  right  if  I  let  them  persuade  me  to  go,  since  Victor 
wishes  it." 

"Yes,  indeed,  ma  Torine,"  urged  the  old  man. 
''You  must  go  for  Victor'  sake.  We  promise  to  be 
sage  —  eh,  Susanne  ?  " 

"Victorine  can  trust  the  old  ones,"  agreed  the  Nor- 
man coijffe.   "They  are  going  to  be  sage,  sage." 

Promptly  therefore  at  the  appointed  moment,  Made- 
moiselle was  in  readiness.  She  entered  the  kitchen 
magnificent,  incredible,  in  a  black  suit  that  seemed  on 
the  point  of  bursting  for  the  extreme  snugness  of  its 
fit,  and  a  broad  hat  towering  with  white  plumes. 

.^33 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


The  old  man  rubbed  his  hands  together  with 
paternal  admiration. 

"You  are  beautiful,  my  Victorine!  Eh,  Susanne, 
are  not  you  proud  to  be  the  mother  of  our  Torine 
there?" 

"She  could  have  five  husbands  any  day  if  she 
wanted  them,"  chimed  in  the  little  creature. 

Victorine  gave  a  smiling  grunt,  as  she  struggled 
with  a  refractory  glove.  "I  know  too  much  about 
husbands,"  she  said. 

"There  is  plenty  time  yet,"  put  in  the  papa,  know- 
ingly. "But,  however,  you  are  going  to  enjoy  your- 
self well  this  afternoon." 

"Oh,  as  for  that,"  conceded  Victorine,  doubtfully, 
"I  do  not  care  much  about  all  those  absurd  things  at 
the  Hippodrome.  But  Victor  will  be  pleased,  I  hope. 
I  am  doing  it  for  him.  —  You  may  light  the  gas,  fa- 
ther, at  half-past  four." 

"Very  well,  my  Torine.  At  half-past  four.  You 
can  trust  us  to  be  sage." 

In  another  minute  the  ancient  pair  heard  the  shut- 
ting of  the  front  door.   They  were  alone. 

"  Eh  bien,"  observed  old  Victor,  taking  a  little  pinch 
of  snuff.  "The  young  people  must  have  their  good 
times,  I  suppose.  One  of  these  days  the  good  times 
will  come  to  an  end.  They  will  grow  feeble  and  old 
and  have  to  sit  beside  the  stove  all  day." 

"Yes,  my  Victor,"  sighed  Susanne.  "Life  is  not 
134 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


gay.  For  a  little  time  there  is  singing  and  happiness ; 
but  not  for  long.  Well,  one  must  bear  it  with  patience." 

The  papa  Victor  gave  a  rebellious  rap  of  his  cane. 
*'But  for  all  that,"  he  remarked,  "it  seems  to  me  that 
Torine  is  a  little  too  severe  with  the  old  ones.  Why 
does  she  refuse  to  let  me  get  a  little  glass  sometimes 
at  the  corner?  Why,  I  say?  —  Even  at  my  age  I 
might  have  a  Httle  pleasure  in  that." 

"For  one  thing,  my  Victor,  she  does  not  like  to 
have  you  spend  money." 

"A  little  glass  —  that  is  only  ten  sous." 

"Yes,  my  dear  man,  if  it  would  only  be  one  little 
glass.  But  always  where  there  is  one,  there  is  two, 
sometimes  three.   That  costs." 

"Nevertheless,  Torine  is  too  severe,"  reiterated  the 
papa  Victor,  in  an  injured  voice.  "She  forget  the 
days  of  the  Cafe  Antoine.  She  think  she  owe  nothing 
to  her  poor  old  father." 

Susanne,  perceiving  that  nothing  was  to  be  gained 
by  argument,  only  sighed  a  little  ghost  of  a  sigh,  and 
continued  her  knitting. 

"But  an  idea  has  come  to  me,"  pursued  the  octo- 
genarian, darkly.  "I  am  thinking  about  it  since  two 
days.  Surely  there  can  be  no  harm  in  amusing  our- 
selves a  little  when  they  have  gone  off  like  that  and 
left  us  all  alone." 

"If  Torine  would  not  object,"  put  in  Susanne, 
timidly. 

135 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"Tonne !  Always  Torine !"  —  He  snapped  his  fin- 
gers contemptuously.   "I  am  not  afraid  of  Torine." 

The  little  woman  drew  a  tremulous  breath  of  ad- 
miration. "Ah,  you  never  were  a  man  for  being 
afraid,  my  Victor." 

The  old  papa  smiled  complaisantly.  "No,"  he 
agreed.  "I  do  not  believe  anybody  ever  accused  the 
proprietor  of  the  Cafe  Antoine  of  being  timid ;  and  all 
Rouen  knew  the  Cafe  Antoine.  —  Besides,  in  her 
heart,  Torine  would  be  glad.  She  would  only  pre- 
tend to  be  angry." 

"What  do  you  mean, mon  ami  ?"  inquired  Susanne, 
scenting  evil. 

The  old  man  gave  a  confident  toss  to  his  head.  "She 
does  not  like  to  have  him  out  there,"  he  said,  with  a 
gesture  of  a  long  bony  finger  toward  the  yard.  "He 
will  never  fly,  that  is  certain.  His  wing  is  not  going 
to  be  strong  again.  He  only  eats  and  eats  and  grows 
fat,  —  oh,  my  Susanne,  so  fat !  so  fat !  —  a  veritable 
marvel!" 

He  produced  a  curiously  succulent  sound  between 
his  scanty  teeth.  A  first  clear  hint  of  the  devilish  de- 
sign flashed  into  the  old  maman's  brain. 

"The  pigeon!"  she  gasped.  "Oh,  my  friend,  you 
would  never  dare ! " 

"No?"  —  The  papa  Victor  drew  himself  up  im- 
perially. "Who  says  I  would  not  dare  ?  —  Listen,  my 
Susanne,  do  you  remember  the  famous  pigeon-pasties 

136 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


of  the  Cafe  Antoine  ?  Do  you  remember  the  universal 
admiration  they  evoked?  Do  you  remember  how 
Victor  Napoleon  La  Bergere,  who  is  now  an  old,  old 
man,  huddling  by  the  stove  with  his  cane,  used  to  create 
them  in  that  fine  little  cuisine  behind  the  restaurant  ? 
Ah,  those  were  the  good  days.  There  was  glory  then ! " 

"Glory!  Ah,  my  man!"  exclaimed  Susanne,  with 
an  outburst  of  febrile  enthusiasm.  "In  all  Rouen  one 
used  to  hear,  ^  Oh,  the  wonderful  pates  de  pigeon  of 
the  Cafe  Antoine !  Oh,  the  lovely  sauces  of  the  Cafe 
Antoine !  Oh,  the  fried  potatoes,  so  delicate,  so  tender, 
of  the  Cafe  Antoine ! '  No  one  talked  in  Rouen  of  any- 
thing else!" 

A  flush  of  new  life  had  appeared  in  her  sunken 
little  cheeks.  Her  two  hands,  freely  gesticulating, 
shook  with  excitement.  The  old  Victor  agreed  with 
her,  rapping  his  stick  on  the  floor.  And  then  a  look 
of  Machiavellian  subtlety  came  into  his  glittering 
eyes. 

"Attend,  my  wife,"  he  whispered,  significantly. 
"I  knov/  something  about  Victorine,  and  she  suspects 
that  I  know  it.  —  How  did  the  dog  of  Monsieur 
Philippe  run  away  yesterday?  He  did  not  get  out  on 
the  street  himself.  Neither  did  the  grocer  boy  let  him 
out,  as  Torine  declare.  —  /  know  how  he  get  outT^ 

She  gazed  at  him  with  eyes  wide-set,  comprehend- 
ing, reasoning. 

"Go,  my  Victor,"  she  directed,  with  sudden  reso- 
137 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


lution.  "Take  the  pigeon.  Yes,  yes,  why  should  we 
not  amuse  ourselves  a  little  ?  We  will  tell  Monsieur 
Philippe  that  it  flew  away  while  you  were  feeding 
it." 

"That  is  what  I  am  going  to  do,"  announced  the 
hero  of  the  Cafe  Antoine.  "We  will  have  once  more  a 
little  pate  —  just  me  and  you,  hein?  —  Wait,  I  am 
going  for  him.  Will  you  get  ready  the  little  black  ket- 
tle, my  dear  ?  We  will  boil  him  for  fifteen  minute  in 
water  with  a  small  little  onion  and  some  salt." 

It  was  a  labour  of  but  a  half  hour  to  prepare  Co- 
lumba  for  the  pot.  Susanne  sat  close  by  during  the 
entire  process,  proudly,  eagerly  watching,  until  the 
last  joint  had  been  separated  by  the  old  man's  skilled 
fingers,  and  put  over  to  seethe.  Next  the  paste  must 
be  mixed,  and  sauce  prepared.  With  excited,  fevered 
devotion  she  responded  to  his  every  request,  hovering 
about  like  a  timid  winter  bird.  She  fetched  flour  and 
butter,  fetched  stock,  whole  cloves,  mace,  cayenne, 
bay  leaves,  and  a  precious  dark  little  bottle  of  herb- 
extract  that  had  come  from  Rouen  twenty  years  ago ; 
she  buttered  a  tiny  baking-dish,  found  a  piece  of 
brown  paper  to  cover  the  pie,  and  stood  with  raised, 
tremulous  hands  beside  the  old  Victor  while  the  pate 
was  compounded.  He  was  a  general ;  she  his  devoted 
adjutant. 

"Ah,  my  Victor,  you  are  a  marvel  of  men,"  she 
protested,  while  her  sunken  eyes  glowed  with  adora- 

138 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


tion.  *^One  would  believe  you  were  not  a  day  older 
than  thirty  to  see  the  address  with  which  you  work. 
It  is  the  Cafe  Antoine  once  more  alive!" 

The  old  man  gave  a  deprecatory  shrug.  "Oh,  this 
is  nothing/*  he  asserted,  magnificently.  "This  is  the 
simplest  of  all  my  creations.  However,  it  is  something, 
my  friend,  to  be  free  once  more.  Tonne  will  never 
remember  that  her  father  is  an  artist  supreme.  She 
believe  he  is  the  same  as  any  old  man." 

"Tonne  forget  the  Cafe  Antoine,"  put  in  Susanne, 
antiphonally. 

"But  it  is  going  to  be  all  different  in  the  future," 
declared  the  papa  Victor,  defiantly.  "After  this  I  am 
going  to  have  my  own  way  whenever  I  want  it.  It  will 
be,  *  Tonne,  this!'  —  ^Torine,  that!'  She  will  soon 
learn  that  things  have  changed." 

There  were  two  bright  red  spots  at  his  cheek-bones ; 
his  eyes  flashed  with  authority ;  his  voice  had  lost  its 
old-time  tremolo,  and  was  once  more  that  of  a  com- 
mander of  men's  stomachs.  The  years  had  rolled 
from  him  like  magic.  Even  Susanne  seemed  a  quar- 
ter-century younger. 

"Voil^!"  he  announced,  grandly,  as  he  put  the  last 
decorative  touch  to  the  crimped  edge  of  the  pasty. 
"Voila!  It  is  done!  —  Open  the  oven!" 

The  oven  was  opened.  In  went  the  masterpiece  of 
the  Cafe  Antoine.  Click  shut  the  heavy  door.  The 
deed  was  accomplished.  The  inspiration  had  come 

139 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


to  its  fruition.  The  genius  of  the  papa  Victor, 
evoked  from  its  long  slumber,  had  been  vindicated. 

"And  now,  my  man,"  said  Susanne,  with  hectic 
briskness,  "we  will  have  a  little  wee  rest  for  one  min- 
ute in  our  chairs ;  and  then  we  will  gather  up  the  cook- 
ing things  and  put  them  away.  Later  we  will  eat  the 
pie." 

"Yes,"  said  the  papa  Victor.  "A  minute  or  two  of 
rest;  and  then  we  will  finish." 

They  resumed  their  accustomed  places;  and  a 
silence  fell  upon  the  room,  broken  only  by  the  ticking 
of  the  clock.  The  afternoon  was  slipping  away.  Al- 
ready the  basement  kitchen  had  grown  a  little  dusky. 
A  great  fatigue  began  to  envelop  the  ex-proprietor 
of  the  Cafe  Antoine.  His  limbs,  that  so  short  a  time 
before  had  thrilled  with  imperial  energy,  felt  like 
dead  things.  He  wondered  how  he  could  ever  get 
up  from  his  chair  again. 

The  fire  began  to  glow  with  a  ruddier  gleam 
through  the  little  chinks  of  the  stove.  The  kettle 
hummed  with  a  soft,  insistent  monotony.  And  still 
the  clock  ticked  on.  The  shadows  were  ranked  deep 
in  the  corners  of  the  room.  It  was  almost  time  to  light 
the  gas.  The  dishes  and  utensils  were  still  lying  in 
disorder  on  the  table.  The  thought  suddenly  came  to 
him  that  before  very,  very  long  Victorine  would  be 
coming  home ;  and  with  the  thought  a  pall  of  dread 
fell  upon  his  spirit.  Victorine  would  be  oh,  so  angry! 

140 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


She  would  scold  him.    Perhaps  she  would  refuse  to 
give  him  his  little  glass  cognac  before  he  went  to  bed ! 

Oh,  they  must  clear  away  the  dishes  at  once.  Vic- 
torine  must  not  find  things  in  disorder. 

"Susanne,"  he  called  feebly.  "We  have  had  our 
rest  now,  hein  ?  We  must  be  putting  away  the  things." 

For  the  space  of  several  seconds  he  waited  for  an 
answer.  It  was  very  dark  in  the  corner  where  Susanne 
was  sitting.   He  could  not  see  her. 

"Susanne,"  he  called  again.  "Do  you  hear?  We 
must  be  putting  away  the  things  now." 

The  reply  came  so  faint  as  scarcely  to  be  audible. 
*'Yes,  my  friend.  We  must  put  away  the  things  at 
once,  —  at  once,  —  in  just  a  little  minute." 

But  neither  made  any  movement  to  get  up.  The 
room  grew  darker.  It  was  night  in  the  comers.  Vic- 
torine's  white  apron  hanging  on  the  back  of  the  door 
looked  like  a  ghostly  visitant,  come  upon  them  una- 
wares. The  shadows  were  full  of  things  that  got  on 
one's  nerves. 

"Susanne,"  he  said,  finally,  in  a  strange,  mufHed 
voice  that  tried  to  be  resolute.  "It  is  time  to  light  the 
gas  now.  We  must  be  busying  ourselves.  The  dishes 
must  be  washed  and  put  away  now." 

"Yes,  my  Victor,"  came  the  response,  scarcely 
louder  than  the  whirr  of  an  insect's  wing.  "We 
must  not  sit  here  any  longer  like  this.  We  have  had 
our  rest." 

141 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


There  was  a  little  break  in  her  words;  while  the 
clock  ticked  tyrannically. 

"Ah,  my  friend/^  she  concluded.  "Life  is  very 
hard.  It  is  not  an  easy  thing  for  the  poor  old  ones." 

The  room  was  all  dark  now,  save  for  the  mocking 
little  chinks  of  the  fire.  The  pate  was  surely  burned 
to  a  crisp.  Even  the  kettle  was  beginning  to  boil  away, 
as  you  could  tell  by  its  eager,  hoarse  song.  Decidedly 
old  age  had  once  more  claimed  its  victims. 

The  maman  Susanne  sat  huddled  among  the  cush- 
ions of  her  deep  chair,  gazing  at  nothing  out  of  vague, 
frightened  eyes.  She  began  to  feel  cold.  She  knew 
that  soon  she  would  begin  to  cough.  Ah,  life  was  not 
gay  at  all,  just  now.  She  wished  they  would  come  and 
put  her  to  bed.   She  was  very  tired. 

"Why  does  not  our  Victorine  come  back?"  she 
murmured,  feebly,  at  last.  "I  am  getting  frightened, 
it  is  so  dark.   And  I  am  very  tired." 

"Yes,"  came  the  papa's  voice,  quaveringly, 
through  the  darkness.  "I  wish  she  would  come.  I 
wish  she  would  come  and  Hght  the  gas.  I  do  not  like 
to  sit  here  so  long,  just  us  two,  in  the  dark.  It  is  not 
kind  to  leave  the  old  ones  so  long  without  attention.'' 


XIV 

Friday  afternoon  Philip  appeared  again  at  the  of- 
fice, considerably  to  the  surprise  of  the  head-draughts- 
man, who  had  not  expected  him  until  the  following 
week.  He  took  up  his  work  directly  and  seemed  at 
once  to  become  completely  absorbed  in  it,  exchanging 
scarcely  a  word  with  any  of  the  other  men.  Gradually, 
as  he  worked,  the  tumult  that  still  remained  in  his 
mind  from  the  previous  afternoon  subsided.  Only  a 
deep,  sullen  bitterness  was  left. 

For  a  time  Georgia's  accusations  had  overwhelmed 
him.  He  had  left  Highstone  under  the  crushing  con- 
viction that  his  hope  of  forgiveness  had  been  only  a 
final  proof  of  his  baseness.  He  had  ridden  aimlessly, 
blindly,  for  miles  up  and  down  the  silent,  night- 
shrouded  country,  dazed  by  the  thought  that  he  was 
now  a  branded  outcast.  Before  that  one  judge  whose 
judgment  could  turn  the  scales  of  his  Hfe,  he  had  been 
arraigned  and  found  guilty  of  a  crime  that  could  not 
be  atoned  for,  the  punishment  of  which  was  that  he 
must  always  carry  in  his  heart  the  memory  of  the 
thing  he  had  lost. 

Georgia  had  never  seemed  so  wonderful  to  him  as 
at  that  first  moment  when,  in  the  recital  of  his  confes- 
sion, he  had  sensed,  rather  than  seen,  the  wave  of  re- 

143 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


vulsion  that  swept  through  her  whole  being.  He  must 
have  been  dull  not  to  have  known  earlier  the  irrevoca- 
bility of  his  sin  in  her  eyes.  How  could  he  have  failed 
to  know  it,  knowing  her  ?  In  her  soul  there  were  no 
compromises.  Lovely  flower  that  she  was  of  the  rock- 
founded  New  England  hills,  there  was  in  her  nature 
also  something  of  their  unbroken  sternness  and 
strength.  He  had  had  the  temerity  to  aspire  to  her; 
he  had  breathed  her  fragrance;  he  had  worshipped 
her  high  beauty,  her  fineness  of  soul;  but  he  had 
proved  unworthy  of  the  quest,  and  had  been  sent 
away  into  the  outer  darkness  of  his  deserts. 

Late  in  the  evening  he  had  stabled  his  horse  and 
gone  directly  to  his  room,  seeing  no  one.  As  an  excuse 
for  leaving  by  the  first  train  the  next  morning,  he  had 
urged  anxiety  about  his  work.  He  did  not  care  whether 
the  excuse  were  lame  or  not.  People  could  think  what 
they  chose.   It  was  nothing  to  him  any  longer. 

For  one  minute,  on  his  way  to  the  station,  he  had 
stopped  in  at  Aunt  Prue's.  He  could  not  have  brought 
himself  to  go  without  a  good-by  to  her. 

"Why,  Philip,  dear,  what  has  happened?"  she 
asked,  noting  with  quick  concern  the  signs  of  unhap- 
piness  in  his  face. 

"It's  only  a  personal  matter,  aunt,"  he  had  ex- 
plained, hastily.   "It  concerns  just  two  individuals." 

"Oh,  I  'm  sorry!"  she  said,  with  a  smile  of  tender 
comprehension. 

144 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"Don't  feel  sorry  for  we/"  he  broke  out.  "Every- 
thing is  my  fault.  I'm  going  back  now  to  work  and 
try  to  forget." 

Stooping  quickly,  he  had  pressed  her  little  hand  to 
his  lips.  She  saw  that  his  mind  was  made  up.  She  saw 
that  he  had  nothing  to  tell  her,  and  made  no  effort  to 
detain  him  further. 

But  Philip  was  by  nature  too  candid  with  himself 
to  entertain  for  long  any  morbid  conception  of  his  own 
baseness.  He  had  done  wrong ;  but  he  had  done  his 
best  to  atone  for  it ;  and  he  could  not  believe  that  there 
was  not  a  charity  in  the  truest  love  which  would  have 
taken  him  back  and  put  trust  in  him  anew. 

He  did  not  blame  Georgia.  She  had  never  been 
truer  to  herself  than  just  in  this.  But  he  wished  that 
she  could  have  understood. 

It  came  to  him  that  the  people  who  could  under- 
stand were  precisely  the  people  who  were  weak  like 
him.  The  strong  ones,  the  free-minded  ones,  the 
stainless  ones  were  removed  by  the  very  mettle  of  their 
natures  from  comprehending  what  the  ferocity  of 
temptation  might  be  with  another.  Because  temptation 
never  came  to  them,  or  because,  when  it  came,  there 
was  always  at  hand  the  force  to  overcome  it,  they 
could  not  see  how  another  might  struggle  in  the  dark, 
weaken,  loose  his  hold  blindly,  and  be  swept  away. 

On  MuUin  Street,  where  he  arrived  early  in  the 
evening,  troublous  tidings  awaited  him.    For  one 

H5 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


moment  Victorine  was  a  little  disconcerted  by  his  un- 
expected appearance.  She  had  not  looked  for  him 
until  Sunday  night.  Her  story  was  not  quite  on  her 
tongue's  end.    But  it  came  quickly. 

"I  am  so  sorry,  so  sorry,"  she  declared  with  a  look 
of  solicitude  such  as  he  had  never  before  seen  in  her 
face.  ^^  Always  I  tell  that  grocer  boy  to  be  sure  he 
shut  the  gate  carefully  when  he  go  out.  But  yesterday 
he  forget ;  and  a  little  later,  when  I  notice  it,  the  poor 
little  dog  is  already  run  away.  I  do  not  see  him 
again." 

The  papa  Victor  set  down  his  empty  little  glass  on 
the  table  with  a  sigh  of  regret.  "Yes,"  he  corrobor- 
ated, earnestly.  "It  was  that  grocer  boy.  I  see  the 
dog  run  out.  I  call  to  him.  But  it  is  no  use.  He  is  gone. 
He  is  disappear  some  place.  And  for  the  pigeon,  alas, 
my  frien',  he  get  out  the  box  this  morning  while  I  feed 
him,  and  fly  away." 

Old  Susanne,  who  had  not  yet  been  put  to  bed,  was 
sipping  a  cup  of  hot  tea  in  the  depths  of  her  chair. 
Her  voice  was  fainter  than  usual;  but  she  piped  up 
loyally,  — 

"Fly,  fly,  fly,  m'sieu!"  She  made  a  descriptive 
gesture  with  one  hand.  "  I  see  him  fly  —  dere  —  way 
above  de  roofs,  m'sieu." 

"No,  my  Susanne,"  corrected  the  papa  Victor  with 
extreme  scrupulosity.  "Not  above  the  roofs.  He 
could  not  fly  so  well  as  dat.  His  wing  was  not  strong 

146 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


enough.  First  on  the  ground  —  so !  Then  a  little 
higher ;  then  a  little  higher  —  roun'  and  roun'  — 
and  then  off  t'rough  de  hair.  I  try  to  catch  him ;  but 
it  don't  be  no  use." 

"Yes,  the  poor  old  papa  was  quite  exhausted  by 
all  that,"  said  Victorine,  with  a  confirmative  nod. 
*^When  I  come  home  I  find  him  there  in  the  chair. 
He  can  hardly  speak  for  being  tired.  It  is  useless  to 
try  to  catch  a  bird,  monsieur,  by  running  after  it.  The 
papa  would  have  needed  wings." 

The  compact  of  deception  was  complete.  The 
armour  of  falsehood  was  impenetrable.  Had  it  not 
been  that  Philip,  stepping  out  into  the  extension  base- 
ment to  dispose  of  the  relics  of  his  hospital,  perceived 
on  the  floor  a  few  tell-tale  feathers  which  had  escaped 
the  papa's  sedulous  notice,  he  would  have  had  small 
enough  ground  for  suspicion.  As  it  was,  he  only 
smiled  grimly,  bit  his  lip,  and  went  up  to  his  room 
without  further  words. 

The  incident  affected  him  so  triflingly,  one  way  or 
another,  that  he  believed  he  must  be  growing  callous. 
It  only  meant  that  he  was  a  little  more  friendless  than 
ever.  There  had  been  only  one  real  incident  in  his 
life.  He  wondered  whether  anything  would  ever  seem 
important  to  him  beside  that. 

Entering  his  room,  he  dropped  sullenly  into  a  chair, 
without  lighting  the  gas,  and  indulged  himself  for  a 
little  time  without  restraint  in  gloomy  reflections. 

H7 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Three  nights  before,  when  he  had  last  sat  here,  a  ta- 
per of  hope  had  still  burned  in  the  inmost  recesses  of 
his  mind.  That  had  been  extinguished  now.  The  gust 
that  blew  it  out  had  gone  by.  Darkness  and  dull  re- 
sentment were  left. 

"Is  that  you  back  again,  Wetherell?''  inquired  a 
voice  from  the  open  doorway,  and  he  recognized  the 
glow  of  his  neighbour's  stogie. 

"It  is,"  he  replied,  springing  up  not  without  mor- 
tification, and  striking  a  light. 

"Well,  well,  what  brought  you  back,  pray,  at  this 
early  date?'' 

Philip  did  not  look  at  him  directly,  but  reached  for  a 
cigarette.  "  Oh,  I  just  thought  I  'd  come,"  he  answered. 

"Too  much  Thanksgiving,  perhaps,"  ventured  his 
friend. 

Philip  nodded. 

"It's  a  pretty  custom,  that  of  giving  thanks,"  ob- 
served Barry  dryly.  "Charmingly  pretty.  The  Big 
Bow-wow  must  be  hugely  gratified.  What  did  you 
have  to  thank  him  for  this  time?" 

"I  was  interrupted  in  the  midst  of  the  service," 
answered  the  young  man  with  a  flippancy  which  did 
not  conceal  bitterness.  "I'm  afraid  I  neglected  to 
resume  it  later." 

"It's  a  very  long  service,  if  it's  put  through  consist- 
ently," said  Barry,  spitting  into  the  fire.  "Thank  him 
for  flowers ;  thank  him  also  for  lice  and  scale  and  blight 

148 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


and  slug.  Thank  him  for  the  inestimable  gift  of  health ; 
thank  him  equally  for  tuberculosis  bacilli,  hookworm, 
leprosy,  and  the  rest.  All  these  are  showered  upon 
us  freely  out  of  the  cornucopia  of  the  same  Infinite 
Goodness.  What  I  never  could  understand  is  why, 
if  we  appoint  Thanksgiving  Days,  we  don't  also 
appoint  Cursegiving  Days  to  even  up  the  balance. 
The  logic  of  both  would  be  the  same." 

He  broke  off  with  a  mirthless  chuckle,  and  there 
was  a  silence,  while  he  took  a  few  puffs  at  his  cigar. 
Finally  he  turned  an  intent  look  upon  the  boy's  coun- 
tenance. 

"Can  you  make  terms,"  he  asked,  "with  a  world 
in  which  an  all-wise,  all-powerful  Creator  sends  blight 
and  pestilence  upon  the  children  of  his  creation?" 

With  a  jarring  start  of  surprise  Philip  remembered 
that  only  the  day  before,  he  had  been  listening  to  little 
Aunt  Prudence  in  her  garden.  For  an  instant  he  saw 
her  again,  standing  beside  him  in  her  absurd  working- 
cap,  her  grey  eyes  lighted  with  happiness  as  she 
chatted  of  her  bulbs  and  of  the  goodness  of  the  natu- 
ral order.  Under  Barry's  immovable  scrutiny,  the 
vision  vanished  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come. 

"For  myself,  I  don't  see  how,"  he  admitted,  hon- 
estly.  "But  I  know  some  who  do." 

His  visitor  laughed.  "  I  suppose  they  term  pain  and 
disease  a  mysterious  discipline  of  Providence.  That 's 
the  usual  evasion." 

149 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Philip  did  not  answer.  He  wondered  what  little 
Aunt  Prue  would  say  about  pain  and  disease. 

"I  knew  a  man  once,"  said  Barry,  "who  replied, 
with  a  solemn  shake  of  the  head,  when  I  put  that  query 
to  him:  ^Ah,  that's  the  mystery  of  it  all,  my  friend. 
That's  where  we  are  called  upon  to  have  faith.'  — 
Faith!  I  thought  that  unsurpassable  as  a  statement 
of  the  piddy  widdy  orthodox  view.  Shut  your  eyes 
to  facts :  take  faith  !  For  myself,  I  prefer  to  have  facts, 
even  though  they  may  not  be  pretty." 

A  feverish,  bitter  eloquence  suddenly  laid  hold  of 
the  man.  He  rose  from  his  chair,  threw  his  cigar- 
stump  into  the  fire,  and  paced  up  and  down  the  room, 
forcefully  gesticulating. 

"Look  abroad,  with  wide-open,  seeing  eyes  on  the 
kingdom  of  nature,"  he  cried,  passionately,  "and  tell 
me  what  you  discover.  Teeth  to  tear,  fangs  to  poison, 
hooks,  tusks,  to  rend  and  gore,  stings,  claws,  venom- 
pouches,  suckers :  —  oh,  yes,  a  thousand  convincing 
evidences  of  God's  peace  and  good-will!  Go  to  the 
Parasites,  O  true  believer,  consider  their  ways,  and 
be  wise.  Acquaint  thyself  with  all  their  diabolical 
machinery  of  destruction ;  survey  those  thousands  of 
species  utterly  incapable  of  life  save  by  sapping  the 
life  of  another,  —  Ah,  Nature  1  —  What  is  Nature  but 
conflict,  pitiless,  murderous,  uncompromising,  un- 
remittent  conflict,  where  one  out  of  five,  one  out  of 
ten,  —  yes,  in  lower  species,  one  out  of  miUions,  — 

150 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


survives,  and  the  rest  feed  the  Cosmic  Process.  By 
all  means,  let  us  return  thanks,  thanks,  for  the  in- 
ejffable  beauties  of  Nature !  Let  us  go  humbly  to  Na- 
ture, and  through  Nature  humbly  to  Nature's  God!" 

Philip  shivered  in  spite  of  himself  as  he  felt  the 
man's  burning  eyes  fixed  upon  him.  Where  had  he 
seen  those  eyes  before,  that  proud,  backward  fling  of 
the  head?  With  an  uncanny  shock  of  memory  he 
placed  it,  and  heard  Georgia  Raebum  saying  again 
—  **Not  much  like  daddy  in  that,  at  all  events."  No, 
not  much  alike  in  the  character  of  their  faith ;  and 
yet  how  strangely  akin  by  the  fire  and  vehemence 
of  their  temper.  Gerizim  and  Ebal,  blessing  and 
cursing,  yet  mountains  of  prophecy  both. 

"If  that  is  your  world,"  demanded  Philip,  intently, 
"what  terms  do  you  find  for  making  your  life  worth 
living?" 

"Terms?  —  My  will!  My  desire P^  retorted  Barry, 
throwing  out  his  gaunt  hands  with  an  imperial  ges- 
ture. "What  more  do  I  need  than  that  to  justify  ex- 
istence for  me,  individually  ?  I  see  everything  strug- 
gling for  the  thing  it  wants  —  food,  light,  pleasure, 
what  not.  It  may  get  what  it  wants.  It  may  lose  it. 
While  the  chance  of  getting  it  remains,  life  means 
something,  is  desirable.  Look  at  me !  I  Ve  lost  once, 
lost  twice,  lost  thrice.  I  'm  at  the  bottom  of  the  ladder. 
But  only  three  years  ago  I  was  climbing,  climbing 
toward  the  top  —  I  mean  the  top  of  my  particular 

151 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


ladder.  Well,  I  may  get  there  yet.  I  have  n  't  given  up. 
So  long  as  it  has  n't  been  proved  to  me  that  I  can't  get 
there,  I  have  hope ;  and  so  long  as  I  have  hope,  I  can 
accept  life  on  its  own  harsh  terms  and  be  glad  of  it.  If 
I  win  my  victory  in  the  end,  I  shall  have  the  satisfac- 
tion of  having  won  it  over  every  obstacle  that  the  world 
and  the  social  order  and  my  own  recalcitrant  instincts 
can  have  put  in  my  path.  If  I  lose  —  if  the  hope  that 
now  lights  me  fails  and  is  extinguished  —  that  is 
where  I  cease  to  struggle." 

"If  the  hope  that  now  lights  me  fails,"  —  the  words 
echoed  through  Philip's  brain  long  after  his  guest  had 
said  good-night  and  withdrawn  to  his  own  room.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  had  uttered  them  himself. 

"If  the  hope  fails,  there  I  cease  to  struggle."  He 
had  nursed  hope,  the  hope  of  being  found  worthy ;  and 
the  hope  had  failed.  Other  hopes  remained,  to  be 
sure;  but  that  one  which  came  closest  of  all  to  his 
heart  was  dead.  The  struggle  which  it  had  inspired, 
was  there  anything  in  him  now  to  give  it  continuance, 
to  make  it  worth  while? 

Had  not  the  prophet  of  the  Mount  of  Cursing 
spoken  truly?  The  struggle  ceases  when  the  hope 
that  lights  the  soul  is  extinguished. 


XV 

They  sat  at  one  of  the  little  tables  in  the  balcony  at 
the  Boulevard.  Through  the  warm,  smoke-wreathed 
atmosphere  were  borne  the  subdued  strains  of  the  or- 
chestra below  —  some  languorous  waltz,  that  pulsed 
lullingly  on  the  senses,  and  seemed  to  absorb  into 
itself  and  transmute  into  an  original  element  of  the 
music  the  chatter  and  laughter  of  the  throng  of  diners 
and  the  ceaseless  tinkling  of  glass  and  silver. 

Leaning  forward  on  her  elbows  and  resting  her  chin 
on  linked  fingers,  the  woman  gazed  into  his  face 
through  narrowed  eyelids,  and  smiled  a  smile  of  the 
eternal  Sphinx. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

There  had  come  a  slight  pause  in  their  talk.  It  was 
the  first  since  they  had  met,  in  response  to  his  note  of 
invitation,  at  the  restaurant.  Till  now  Katrinka's  de- 
lightful, inconsequential  chatter  had  left  no  spaces 
for  reflection.  There  had  been  no  explanations,  no 
references  even  to  the  events  of  a  fortnight  previous. 
But  at  last  the  inevitable  moment  had  come. 

The  narrowed,  drawn-out  eyelids  flickered  slightly 
over  the  Hquid  eyes  of  grey-gold ;  but  the  gaze  of  the 
eyes  did  not  deviate.  He  felt  an  old  Egyptian  spell 
in  them  lay  hold  of  him. 

^53 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"I  was  sure  I  would  see  you  again,"  she  said. 

There  were  both  welcome  and  challenge  in  her  in- 
finitely flexible  voice. 

The  man  advanced  his  hand  involuntarily  to  her 
empty  glass  and  spun  it  toyingly  in  his  fingers,  while 
the  colour  mounted  to  his  handsome  face. 

"In  that  case,  you  knew  a  lot  more  than  I  did,"  he 
said,  watching  the  rim  of  the  glass  intently.  "  I  did  n't 
have  any  expectation  of  seeing  you  again.  But  I  was 
a  fool.   I  might  have  known  better." 

He  gazed  at  her  directly,  and  the  fires  that  are 
burned  before  strange  gods  were  lighted  in  his  dark 
eyes.   "Who  could  keep  away?" 

She  smiled  again,  with  unparted  lips,  and  tilted 
her  small  head  a  httle  more  on  her  hands,  so  that  the 
long,  swan-like  throat  was  strained  to  a  new  curve  of 
beauty. 

"But  why  did  you  want  to  keep  away  so,  my 
Lippo?" 

The  man  hesitated,  seeking  an  answer  in  vain. 

She  dropped  her  hands  to  the  table,  and  leaned  for- 
ward on  her  elbows,  opening  her  eyes  wide,  and  speak- 
ing with  a  childish  wistfulness. 

"  Did  you  think  I  was  so  very,  very,  very  wicked  that 
you  must  n't  come  near  me?" 

For  the  merest  instant  the  man  let  his  strong  hand 
close  hard  over  one  of  hers,  as  it  lay  with  relaxed  fin- 
gers on  the  cloth. 

154 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"There  was  a  reason,"  he  brought  out  between  lips 
almost  shut.  " It  was  a  good  reason  too ;  but  it  doesn't 
exist  any  more.  Now  it  is  for  me  to  choose  what  I 
want." 

The  woman  had  a  thrill  of  exultation.  He  belonged 
to  her  now.  He  had  tried  to  get  away;  but  he  had 
come  back.  It  was  a  vindication  of  her  power.  And 
more  than  that ;  it  was  the  fulfilment  of  her  most  cher- 
ished wish. 

"Ah,  my  dear,  what  good,  good  times  we  are  going 
to  have  together  —  he?  I  am  so  happy.  You  make 
me  glad  I  am  alive." 

She  gave  him  a  shining  look  that  caused  the  words  of 
his  reply  to  die  on  his  lips.  To  be  loved,  to  be  coveted, 
to  be  petted  and  adored,  and  to  offer  all  this  in  like 
measure  to  another,  ah,  was  there  not  compensation 
here,  after  a  sort,  for  what  he  had  sacrificed  ?  What 
signified  any  license  he  might  give  himself  now  ?  The 
lofty  white  summits  to  which  he  had  not  been  able  to 
attain  no  longer  beckoned  him.  He  no  longer  had  a 
loyalty  or  a  pledge  to  fight  for.  Nothing  now  was  to 
hold  him  back.   The  struggle  was  over. 

"You  like  the  opera  ? "  she  asked.  " Oh,  I  am  glad ! 
We  will  go  often,  often  together  —  he?  I  adore  it,  — 
not  those  dull  German  things.  No,  I  swear  to  you  I 
went  sound  asleep  when  I  heard  that  old  *  Lohengrin.' 
What  a  little  simpleton  was  Elsa  —  he?  And  the  swan 
—  oh,  mein  Hebe  Schwann!"  —  she  rolled  her  eyes 

155 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


droUy  —  "the  swan  what  creaked  when  it  came  in 
from  the  coulisses,  —  oh,  I  swear  to  you,  my  dear,  I 
never  will  be  so  bored  again  till  my  dying.  'Tann- 
haeuser'  was  a  little  better.  There  was  a  pretty  ballet 
in  the  first  act  —  the  mountain  cavern,  you  remember  ? 
—  where  that  lovely  young  knight  was  captivated  by 
that  fairy  woman  of  the  cavern.  Fremstadt  was  the 
Venus  the  time  I  saw  it.  Oh,  my  dear,  she  was  beauti- 
ful !  —  It  was  a  nice  story  too,  the  story  of  the  knight 
and  the  two  women." 

Their  eyes  suddenly  encountered  with  a  shock; 
she  read  something  in  the  man's,  and  after  a  pregnant 
pause,  bent  toward  him  intently,  with  the  question, 

"Tell  me,  my  Lippo,  is  there  an  Elizabeth,  then, 
waiting  somewhere  for  you?" 

A  slight  shiver  crossed  his  shoulders.  "There  was," 
he  muttered. 

"But  there  isn't  now?" 

She  hung  on  the  answer.  He  shook  his  head  with  a 
bitter  smile. 

Her  voice  softened  strangely.  "  Oh,  the  women  like 
Elizabeth,  they  do  not  ever  understand  how  the  world 
is  made.  Listen,  my  dear :  you  would  have  flung  away 
your  little  fairy  of  the  Venusberg  for  ever  and  ever  and 
ever,  would  not  you,  if  your  Elizabeth  had  said,  Xome 
back,  my  knight,  —  I  forgive  you.'  " 

Philip  could  not  hide  from  her  the  tears  that  for  an 
instant  welled  hotly  into  his  eyes.    The  memory  of 

.156, 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


what  he  had  lost  stabbed  his  soul  with  intolerable 
pain.  Where  was  he  now  ?  To  what  had  he  come  ?  — 
To  this :  a  return  to  the  thing  that  had  cost  him  the 
other.  An  instinct  of  revulsion  seized  him,  a  wild 
impulse  to  leap  up  from  the  table  and  make  his 
escape. 

But  the  arresting  thought  was  only  a  second  behind. 
What  he  had  lost  was  lost.  He  could  not  be  again  what 
he  had  been.  There  was  no  power  now  that  could 
hold  him  from  being  what  he  was  to  be. 

"I  know  it/'  she  declared.  "You  are  that  kind  of  a 
man." 

"What  kind  of  a  man?"  he  asked,  dully,  for  his 
thoughts  had  swept  him  far  away. 

"There  is  something  like  rock  inside  you  that  is  dif- 
ferent from  any  one  I  have  known :  something  strong, 
and  which  does  not  bend,  and  which  —  what  am  I 
going  to  say  ?  —  which  does  not  give  itself  to  pleasure 
—  do  you  see?  —  no  matter  how  much  you  may 
try." 

"Nonsense!"  came  the  bitter  retort. 

"No,  my  dear,  not  nonsense.  It  is  the  trut^"  she 
protested.  "You  have  a  voice  in  there  "  —  she  struck 
her  bosom  —  "that  says  'no'  —  'no,'  always.  That 
is  why,  for  my  part,  I  cannot  help  always  being  a  little 
afraid  of  you.  I  have  no  conscience,  me.  I  do  what  I 
like.  I  have  no  fights  like  that  inside.  You  have  great 
storms- — hurricanes — there.   I  know.  You  had  one 

IS7 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


just  now.  I  could  see  it.  And  for  one  second  —  two 
seconds  —  you  hated  me,  oh,  so  cruelly!" 

"I  don't  hate  you  now,"  he  broke  out,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper,  leaning  toward  her. 

She  drew  herself  away  with  an  enigmatic  smile. 

"You  think  you  don't,"  she  corrected,  very  calmly; 
"but  that's  only  because  you  want  me,  my  dear.  Some- 
thing in  you  hates  me,  and  hates  yourself  for  wanting 
me.  I  am  just  beginning  to  understand." 

"Don't ! "  he  cried,  beseechingly.  "What 's  the  use 
of  understanding?^^ 

She  paid  no  attention  to  his  words.  For  the  instant 
she  was  completely  given  to  the  truth  that  had  flashed 
upon  her. 

"Some  day,"  she  said,  quietly,  in  the  same  tone  as 
before,  "the  Voice  will  take  you  away  from  me." 

"Don't,  Katrinka,  don't!"  he  pleaded,  in  accents 
which  she  could  no  longer  disregard.  "Don't  make 
me  miserable !  I  came  to  you  because  I  needed  to  be 
happy.  I  could  not  stand  being  so  lonely  and  unhappy 
any  longer.  I  swore  to  myself  I  would  n't  come  back, 
—  yes,  even  after  I  had  lost  everything  else,  I  swore  I 
would  n't  come  back.  I  fought  against  it  for  nine  days 
and  nights.  Then  I  could  n't  stand  it  any  longer.  I 
wrote  you.  Here  we  are/" 

"Ah,  Philip,  dear,"  she  murmured,  "how  lonely 
your  little  Trinka  would  have  been  if  you  had  never, 
never  come  to  her  again!" 

158 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"We  are  going  to  be  happy,"  the  man  declared. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  repeated.    "Happy!" 

There  was  a  second's  silence,  while  the  word, 
which  had  taken  on  an  unintentional  eloquence  of  its 
own,  echoed  itself  harshly  through  both  minds. 

Driven  by  an  indefinable  fear,  she  made  a  desperate 
effort  to  get  back  on  comfortable  ground. 

"Do  you  know  ^Thais'?  We  will  go  to  ^ Thais,' 
Lippo;  it  is  adorable.  Massenet's  music  seems  to 
me  all  colours  —  pale  blue,  red,  purple!  —  and  oh, 
that  Renaud  is  superb ;  a  giant,  my  dear,  all  artist, 
t'rough  and  t'rough. — And  Tagliacci,'  that  is  my  fa- 
vourite opera  of  all ;  it  is  so  pathetic.  —  Oh,  how  many 
things  there  will  be  to  do.  We  will  have  our  nice 
drives  in  the  Park  —  he  —  and  always  you  shall  take 
your  lumps  of  sugar  for  the  horses ;  that  is  such  a  cute 
little  way  of  yours.  And  ever  so  many  nice  little  din- 
ners Hke  this.  I  have  plenty  of  money  to  spend,  plenty, 
plenty;  all  I  want.  We  can  do  anything  we  like." 

She  had  managed  to  dispel  the  atmosphere  of 
dread  and  gloom  that  had  for  a  moment  enveloped 
them.  Philip  became  exuberantly  cheerful,  witty, 
responsive,  full  of  laughter.  The  shadows  had  been 
driven  back  into  the  innermost  places  of  his  soul. 

In  the  two  months  that  followed  they  were  much 
together. 

The  fascination  of  Katrinka  never  diminished. 
There  seemed  to  be  in  her  an  almost  miraculous  power 

159 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


of  metamorphosis.  She  was  never  twice  the  same 
being :  now  sophisticated,  subtle,  as  a  serpent  of  old 
Nile ;  now  like  a  child  in  her  freshness  and  simplicity ; 
now  a  happy  boy  in  her  camaraderie,  her  droll  faces, 
her  delight  in  adventure ;  now  —  and  in  this  guise, 
most  of  all,  she  could  charm  him  to  the  brink  of  the 
abyss  —  an  elusive  wood-sprite,  half  hidden  in  the 
shadows  of  tall  trees,  and  gazing  at  you  out  of  shy, 
wondering,  unhuman  eyes  that  seemed  to  know  all 
the  mysteries  of  the  happy,  fabled  Hfe  of  dryad  and 
faun  which  the  clutter  of  our  modern  world  has  driven 
so  far,  so  very  far  from  us. 

She  could  be  difficult,  too,  querulous.  Philip  was 
captivated  by  her  little  fits  of  sulkiness,  quick  moods 
of  jealousy,  hours,  or  evenings,  of  frigidity  —  a  frigid- 
ity which  he  could  always  tease  or  woo  away,  and 
which  lent  a  new  delightfulness  to  the  shy,  lovely 
abandon  that  came  later.  Her  moods  were  strangely 
without  taint  of  vulgarity  or  calculation.  Nothing 
more  sincere  had  ever  come  into  her  life  than  the  un- 
premeditated and  unreserved  idolatry  which  Philip 
evoked.  Her  solicitude  for  his  health,  her  sympathy 
for  his  artistic  ambition,  and  her  utter  confidence  in 
his  success,  were  all  very  appealing  to  him.  He  told 
himself  that  he  was  glad  he  had  returned  to  her.  He 
reiterated  to  himself  that  he  was  happy. 

What  the  inner  effect  of  it  all  was  on  him,  precisely 
what  it  meant  to  him  as  a  living  soul,  it  would  be 

1 60 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


hard  to  determine.  A  man  of  coarser  fibre,  more  of 
the  brute  type,  would  have  accepted  it  merely  as  a 
transitory  and  trifling  episode,  would  have  derived 
what  gratifications  it  offered  while  it  lasted,  and  when 
the  moment  of  inevitable -break  came,  would  have 
dismissed  it  promptly  and  without  regret  from  his 
mind.  You  would  have  looked  in  vain  for  a  scar. 

But  with  a  man  of  fine  organization,  taught  to  rev- 
erence ideals,  taught  to  cherish  the  integrity  of  his  own 
personality,  no  such  radical  departure  as  that  adopted 
by  Philip  could  fail  to  work  some  deep  effect,  —  deep 
and  very  obscure.  For  in  his  professional  work  he 
was  as  assiduous  and  efficient  as  ever.  Those  who 
knew  him  only  casually,  his  fellow-employes  in  the 
draughting-room,  might  have  noticed  even  an  in- 
creased sociabihty  and  self-confidence  of  manner. 
The  great  accuracy,  rapidity,  and  distinction  of  his 
work  had  won  him  the  respect  of  the  entire  force ; 
and  his  readiness  to  accept  criticism  and  to  offer  as- 
sistance only  enhanced  the  esteem  in  which  he  was 
held. 

His  health  too  was  excellent.  His  sleep  was  sound. 
His  head  was  clear.  The  constant  and  wearing  con- 
flict between  the  hot  blood  of  youth  and  the  austere, 
repressive  idealism  that  was  his  Puritan  inheritance 
appeared  to  be  at  an  end.  Affairs  were,  so  to  speak, 
on  a  practical  basis ;  and  no  one  was  the  worse  for  it. 

Yet  for  the  seeming  ease  of  his  present  circum- 
i6i 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


stances  he  was  paying  a  price.  He  could  not  long 
blind  himself  to  the  fact.  He  had  deliberately  sent  an 
old  ideal  to  the  gibbet ;  but  he  had  not  succeeded  in 
slaying  it.  It  writhed  in  the  pangs  of  death.  It  would 
not  die.  Even  if  hfe  should  finally  go  out  of  it,  it 
would  continue  to  hang  there  in  the  wind  of  memory, 
a  hideous  mockery,  spreading  pestilence.  To  have 
known  it  once  as  a  living,  dynamic  being,  regnant 
in  his  bosom,  binding  his  conduct  to  nobility  and 
self-control ;  and  to  know  that  he  had  sacrificed  it  to 
covetousness  and  appetite,  could  never  bring  him 
anything  but  misery. 

Ideals  that  we  have  worshipped  and  betrayed  do  not 
let  us  escape  from  them.  They  continue  to  judge  us, 
to  mete  out  condemnation.  "Why,  this  is  hell,  nor  am 
I  out  of  it,"  cried  the  great  Mephistophilis,  supremely 
tragic  conception  of  the  elder  drama. 

"  Think'st  thou  that  I,  who  saw  the  face  of  God 
And  tasted  the  eternal  joys  of  Heaven, 
Am  not  tormented  with  ten-thousand  hells 
In  being  deprived  of  everlasting  bliss  ?  " 

Philip's  defection  was  not  to  Georgia  now ;  it  was  to 
the  thing  that  was  best  in  himself.  All  day  long,  from 
week-end  to  week-end,  he  was  obscurely  conscious  — 
sometimes  actively,  poignantly  conscious  —  of  the 
bitter  fact.  He  flung  himself  into  his  work  to  stifle  the 
discontent  that  never  left  him.  He  flung  himself  into 
pleasure  to  find  forgetfulness.    For  a  little  time  the 

162 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


voices  of  reproach  would  cease ;  but  only  for  a  little. 
He  tossed  to  the  watch-dog  at  the  gate  the  familiar 
sops  that  men  have  tossed  always  since  the  day  of 
Adam's  fall:  how  barren  and  empty  is  the  canting 
sound  of  them  to  an  honest  mind !  Beggars  they  are, 
that  wear  on  their  breasts  the  placard  —  "Blind''  — 
but  that  wink  knowingly  if  you  show  them  a  coin. 

When  you  are  seeking  to  capture  and  stifle  that 
most  imperial  of  despots,  Conscience,  not  reason,  but 
all  the  false  shadows  of  reason,  —  plausibility,  adage, 
analogies,  sophistry,  — must  be  your  allies.  Let  them 
invade  the  lofty  hall  of  the  mind;  let  them  swarm 
upon  the  gaunt  figure  that  sits  yonder  upon  the  dais ; 
let  them  bind  and  trample  it.  So  shall  the  revelry  pro- 
ceed. Lights,  ho,  music  and  wine !  While  we  live,  let 
us  live.  The  banquet  is  waiting. 

Thus  is  Conscience  left  alone  in  its  dim  hall,  while, 
for  a  time.  Instinct  and  Desire  have  their  way.  Yet 
always,  above  the  blare,  even,  of  the  Bacchanalian 
laughter  and  the  song,  its  stem  monitory  voice  is 
heard.  This  is  their  condemnation,  that  they  knew 
the  light,  but  that  they  chose  darkness  rather  than 
light. 

The  revelry  is  over.  The  torches  bum  sickly  and 
pale  in  the  white  dawn.  The  drunken  senses,  stupe- 
fied for  a  time,  awake  with  a  start  of  horror  and  re- 
vulsion at  the  spectacle  before  them  —  the  spilled 
wine,  the  shattered  goblets,  the  withered  garlands  — 

163 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


and  still,  through  the  murky  silence,  sounds  on  the 
pitiless  voice  from  the  deserted  upper  hall, — "Now 
therefore  if  that  light  which  is  in  thee  be  darkness, 
how  great  is  that  darkness."  —  Save  as  ye  may  flee 
from  the  Palace  of  Consciousness  itself,  ye  cannot 
flee  beyond  the  reach  of  that  voice  of  judgment. 


XVI 

Coming  in  from  work  one  February  afternoon 
shortly  after  five,  Philip  encountered  an  unexpected 
and  embarrassing  obstruction  to  his  progress  upstairs, 
—  nothing  less  than  the  form  of  a  woman,  young,  if 
he  might  infer,  seated  on  the  bottom  step  in  an 
attitude  of  extreme  woe.  There  was  no  sign  of  a 
head:  only  an  enormous  beaver  hat  that  seemed 
to  lie  quite  flatly  on  the  knees.  Somewhere,  too,  be- 
neath that  all-concealing  disk,  with  its  sable  ribbon 
and  large  gilt  buckle,  hands  were  presumably  to  be 
found. 

The  brown,  pleated  skirt,  not  carefully  prearranged 
for  this  particular  scene,  he  judged,  had  been  drawn 
up  decidedly  askew  by  the  knees,  and  disclosed  two 
feet  in  high-heeled,  run-over  Oxfords,  turned  in 
sharply  one  upon  the  other,  and  tightly  pressed  back- 
ward against  the  riser  of  the  stair. 

The  figure  gave  no  sign,  made  no  movement,  as  he 
opened  the  door,  but  seemed  to  be  so  completely  ded- 
icated to  Grief  that  not  all  the  king's  horses  nor  all  the 
king's  men  could  have  haled  it  from  its  Slough  of 
Despond.  A  gentle,  rhythmical,  rocking  motion,  and 
an  occasional  smothered  snuffle  were  the  only  evi- 
dences, indeed,  that  it  possessed  life,  and  was  not 

165 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


merely  some  ingenious  counterfeit  presentment  of 
Melancholia,  worthy  of  the  Eden  Musee. 

Philip's  hasty  scrutiny  of  the  huddled  object  left 
him  in  no  little  doubt  as  to  its  identity;  but  to  his 
likeliest  supposition  it  was  none  other  than  the  young 
woman  he  had  occasionally  seen  opening  the  mail- 
box of  the  New  York  Correspondence  Institute  of 
Auto-health.  A  great  uncertainty  as  to  his  proper 
course  of  procedure  came  upon  him.  Should  he  in- 
trude upon  its  woe  with  an  apology,  and  a  request  to 
be  allowed  passage  up  the  narrow  stairs  ?  Or  should 
he  boldly  attempt  to  pick  his  way  by,  or  over,  the  ob- 
ject, refraining  from  desecrating  these  doleful  rites? 

He  was  about  to  attempt  the  latter  manoeuvre 
when  the  thought  came  to  him  that  —  in  a  figurative 
sense  —  this  might  be  a  wanton  passing  by  on  the  other 
side ;  that  possibly  it  was  high  time  for  the  offices  of 
some  Good  Samaritan  to  be  offered,  pouring  oil  and 
balm  upon  a  lacerated  heart.  The  function  of  Good 
Samaritan  did  not  much  appeal  to  him,  somehow, 
just  at  the  present  moment.  He  felt  no  strong  natural 
aptitude  for  the  role  of  comforter  to  an  unknown  young 
person  of  the  opposite  sex.  But  he  knew  that  if  he  went 
up  to  his  room,  attempting  nothing,  his  heart  would 
smite  him.  The  least  he  could  do  was  to  ascertain 
whether  he  could  do  anything. 

Therefore  he  withdrew  his  foot  from  the  stair, 
stood  back  two  or  three  paces,  and  reluctantly  and 

i66 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


rather  faintly  cleared  his  throat.  There  was  no  re- 
sponse. He  began  to  feel  embarrassed  and  a  little 
worried. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said,  finally,  in  the  most  defer- 
ential voice  in  the  world.  "But  I  wondered  if  there 
was  anything  —  the  matter." 

The  figure  rocked,  snuffled,  and  was  silent. 

The  young  man  felt  himself  seriously  at  a  loss. 
The  thought  came  to  him  that  he  might  run  down- 
stairs and  tell  Victorine  about  it.  But  that  seemed 
heartless.  Or  he  might  withdraw  from  the  hall  by 
the  way  he  had  come,  take  a  little  walk,  and  hope  that 
when  he  should  return,  the  obstruction  would  be 
gone.  But  that  seemed  evasive.  He  would  make  one 
more  attempt. 

He  cleared  his  throat  with  somewhat  more  deter- 
mination. 

"You  seem  to  be  in  trouble,"  he  said.  "Is  there 
anything  I  can  do?" 

Melancholia  stirred;  then  slowly  unfurled  herself; 
the  wide  brim  of  the  hat  flopped  backward ;  and  there 
was  revealed  to  him  a  small,  homely,  tear-soaked 
visage,  across  which  the  principal  elements  of  what 
had  once  been  a  pompadour  straggled  in  wild  dis- 
array. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silent  mutual  inspection, 
while  the  lady  of  the  mail-box  —  for  it  was  she  — 
mopped  her  grief- furrowed  cheeks.    A  final  pair  of 

167 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


snuffles  joined  the  countless  host  that  had  already 
gone  unrecorded  into  oblivion;  and  lastly  came  out 
the  long-drawn,  wailing  announcement,  — 

"I-I-I'm  fi-i-i-ired." 

Two  ranks  of  tiny  puckers  drew  the  freckles  of  her 
small  broad  nose  out  of  their  usual  pattern ;  and  her 
mouth  pulled  itself  into  the  most  doleful  of  inverted 
crescents.  Again  came  the  fatal  words,  pregnant 
with  despair,  addressed  not  primarily  to  Philip,  but 
to  the  unjust,  pitiless,  implacable,  never-to-be-circum- 
vented Universe. 

"He-e-e's  fi-i-i-ired  me." 

"Brute!"  declared  Philip,  sturdily.  Knowing 
nothing  of  the  facts  of  the  case,  he  naturally  took  up 
cudgels  in  behalf  of  the  worsted  party. 

She  looked  at  him  skeptically  through  red  eyes. 
"He  ain't  a  brute,"  she  responded.  ^'I-I-Pm  a  fool.^' 

Another  torrent  seemed  on  the  verge  of  bursting 
forth.  Dismay  filled  his  heart  at  the  prospect.  The 
floodgates  must  be  held,  somehow. 

"You  're  more  of  a  fool  to  sit  there  like  that,"  he 
announced,  rather  severely.  "You're  very  likely  to 
catch  cold." 

"I  don't  care  if  I  do-o-o-o,"  she  wailed. 

"Well,  I  care  if  you  do,  even  if  you  don't."  His 
tone  was  such  as  to  command  respect.  "  Come.  Are 
you  ready  to  go  home?  Some  fresh  air  will  do  you 
good." 

i68 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


The  girl  surveyed  herself  for  the  first  time,  straight- 
ened her  belt  with  unsteady  fingers,  reached  up  rue- 
fully to  her  hat,  and  attempted  to  correct  its  rakish 
angle.  But  the  ravages  of  her  sorrow  would  not  be 
so  easily  dispelled. 

"It  ain't  no  use,"  she  moaned,  finally.  "I'm  a 
perfect  sight,  and  I  know  it." 

"Have  n't  you  got  a  mirror  in  there  ?"  asked  Philip, 
authoritatively,  indicating  the  door  of  the  New  York 
Institute  of  Auto-health. 

"He's  locked  the  door  on  me  and  gone  away.  — 
Gee,  my  rat's  most  tumbled  out!  Ain't  that  the 
absolute  limit?" 

She  gave  him  a  look  of  vague  despair.  She  seemed 
devoid  of  plan,  resigned  to  staying  there  in  the  hall- 
way, mourning,  till  Doomsday. 

"Hold  on,"  directed  Philip.  "Wait  here  a  minute, 
and  I'll  run  up  and  fetch  you  a  glass.  Do  you  want  a 
comb,  too?" 

She  gave  him  a  look  of  submissive  gratitude.  He 
took  the  stairs  three  at  a  bound,  and  was  back  in 
twenty  seconds  with  the  proffered  articles.  She  took 
the  mirror  obediently,  and  surveyed  her  swollen 
physiognomy.   Dismay  stared  in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  my!"  was  all  she  could  say. 

She  drew  the  pins  out  of  her  hat,  threw  it  down  on 
the  hall  chair,  and  while  Philip  held  the  mirror  for 
her,  hastily  combed  out  her  straggling  fringe  of  front 

169 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


hair,  readjusted  the  rat,  drew  the  fringe  deftly  over 
it,  and  tucked  the  ends  snugly  under  the  scanty  knot 
of  pale  yellow. 

"Gee!"  she  exclaimed,  with  another  hopeless  sur- 
vey of  herself  in  the  glass.  "Don't  it  make  your  face 
look  blotchy  and  awful  to  cry  like  that!  I  suppose 
I'd  ought  to  have  learnt  better." 

"Could  you  use  some  talcum  powder?"  suggested 
Philip,  deferentially.  "I'm  sorry  I  have  n't  got  such 
a  thing  as  a  puff." 

"Oh,  a  handkerchief  'ud  do  first-rate,"  she  replied. 

He  mounted  the  two  flights  again,  and  returned 
with  new  contributions. 

"You'd  better  take  this  handkerchief,"  he  said, 
offering  her  a  fresh  one.  "Yours  is  pretty  much  used 
up,  I  guess." 

She  bestowed  a  dismal  look  on  the  damp  wad  in  her 
hand,  and  accepted  his  offer.  Again  he  held  the 
mirror,  while  she  shook  out  powder  on  the  handker- 
chief and  applied  it  with  wholesale  assiduity,  turning 
her  countenance  critically  this  way  and  that. 

"Well,  that's  the  best  I  c'n  do,"  she  sighed,  after  a 
minute,  lifting  a  dubious  pasty-white  glance  upon  him. 

"Oh,  that'll  go  splendidly,"  he  said,  with  paternal- 
istic encouragement. 

A  first  wave  of  self-consciousness  came  over  her. 
An  anomalous  expression,  which  might  have  been 
some  poor  relation  of  a  smile,  appeared  on  her  lips. 

170 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"Say,  I  hope  nobody  butts  in  on  us  here." 

'* Better  now,"  was  her  cavalier's  comment,  "than 
five  minutes  ago." 

"There's  something  in  that,"  she  remarked,  re- 
placing her  hat  with  studied  care. 

"Now  if  I'd  only  brung  my  veil,"  she  added,  "I 
would  n't  mind  so  awful." 

"You  don't  need  to  mind  as  it  is,"  protested 
Philip,  with  well-meant  gallantry.  "You  look  first- 
rate." 

"Oh,  say!"  she  broke  out,  between  teeth  that  held 
an  enormous  imitation-turquoise  hatpin.  "Is  that 
what  you  call  a  compliment  ?  Oh,  I  ain't  much  of  a 
Venus  de  Milo  even  when  I  'm  all  there ;  but  at  least 
I  don't  look  exactly  like  —  like  this!^^ 

They  could  both  laugh  now;  and  the  laugh  com- 
pleted the  rout  of  the  snuffles. 

"Come  along,"  said  Philip,  slipping  the  toilet 
articles  into  various  pockets.  "I'll  walk  a  way  with 
you,  if  you  don't  object.  Which  direction  do  you  go  ?" 

"Smilax  Street.  Way  down  th'  other  side  o'  Hud- 
son. You  don'  need  to  come,  too." 

"Had  you  rather  I  did  n't?"  he  asked. 

"Gee,  no!  I'm  tickled  to  death." 

Stepping  out  into  the  nipping  February  evening, 
they  made  their  way  westward  until  they  came  to  the 
great  thoroughfare  of  the  West  Side,  where  the  clang- 
ing of  street-cars,  the  rumble  of  belated  trucks,  and 

171 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


the  cries  of  the  innumerable  children  playing  jump- 
rope  and  hopscotch  under  the  very  feet  of  the  hurrying 
throng,  combined  to  produce  that  pleasant,  pande- 
moniac  din  which  is  the  breath  of  life  to  every  true 
inhabitant  of  Manhattan.  Philip  heard  his  compan- 
ion inhaling  it  with  an  eagerness  that  meant  restored 
spirits;  and  they  plunged  merrily  into  the  swirling 
human  current. 

On  Hudson  Street  it  is  mostly  a  procession  of  the 
poor.  Labourers  and  workmen,  hands  in  pockets, 
shoulders  hunched  forward,  shuffling  dully  home- 
ward, with  sullen,  lack-lustre  visage ;  work-worn  wo- 
men with  burdens,  —  piles  of  clothing  on  their  heads, 
or  large  baskets  under  their  arms;  young  sales-girls, 
in  twos  and  threes,  chewing  gum,  and  talking  in  loud, 
nasal  voices  above  the  roar  of  the  street-trafiic ;  little 
boys  and  girls,  raggedly  dressed,  carrying  pails  of 
foaming  beer  to  the  tenement  supper ;  newsies  yelling 
at  the  top  of  their  lungs,  "Woild, — Joinal,  —  One 
cent !  —  Woild,  —  Joinal,  —  One  cent !  —  Buy  a 
poiper,  mister?"  —  the  whole  teeming,  squalid, 
flashy,  humorous,  pathetic  life  of  the  great  West  Side 
flows  in  ceaseless  double  tide  through  this  broad, 
unlovely  Way  of  Common  Humanity,  which  has  its 
origins  amongst  the  gaunt  warehouses  and  loft-build- 
ings of  the  lower  city  and  its  termination  at  Four- 
teenth Street,  where  Christmas  shopping  may  be  done 
on  the  instalment  plan,  and  where  the  tawdry  splen- 

172 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


dours  of  Moving  Picture  Shows  and  Dime  Vaude- 
ville outstare  criticism  and  admiration  alike. 

Ahead  of  the  two  pedestrians,  far  to  the  South,  the 
fretted  outlines  of  the  lofty  Singer  tower  suddenly 
flashed  into  view,  a  cage  of  light,  pendent  from  the 
clouds,  swung  high  above  the  dark  roofs  of  the  city. 

^*Gee,  ain't  it  grand?"  broke  out  the  girl.  "New 
York  for  mine!" 

She  had  scarcely  spoken  till  then ;  she  had  appeared 
to  her  companion  to  be  lost  in  some  intent  preoccu- 
pation of  her  own.  But  the  realization  had  evidently 
come  to  her  now  that  she  owed  some  tribute  of  con- 
versation to  her  new  friend. 

"I  suppose  you  don't  know  much  about  this  part 
of  the  city,"  she  ventured. 

"On  the  contrary,"  responded  Philip,  "it's  one  of 
my  favourite  streets  —  this  and  West  Street.  I  almost 
always  walk  home  by  one  of  them  from  the  office. 
You  're  so  likely  to  see  something  interesting :  a  nice 
fight,  or  a  good  game  of  hopscotch,  or  a  funeral.  And 
I  love  to  watch  the  truck-horses,  three  abreast.  If 
I  were  n't  working  in  an  office,  I  think  I  'd  rather 
drive  a  three-horse  truck  than  do  anything  else  I  can 
think  of." 

"Say,  that's  terrible  funny,"  she  observed,  soberly. 
"I  thought  you  was  quite  a  swell,  from  the  looks." 

Philip  laughed.  "It's  a  pity  to  disappoint  you  so," 
he  said. 

173 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"Oh,  no,"  she  hastened  to  explain.  "I  ain't  dis- 
appointed at  all.  I  meant  one  of  these  bone-fide 
swells  that  goes  sportin'  round  in  limousines.  You 
do  honestly  look  like  one;  but  I'm  right  glad  you 
ain't." 

There  was  a  little  break,  while  they  scuttled  across 
Christopher  Street  between  two  trolley-cars. 

"I  might  have  known  you  was  n't,"  was  her  next 
breathless  contribution  to  the  dialogue.  "Because  if 
you  had  been,  you  would  n't  have  been  so  nice  to  me. 
Lots  of  fellers  would  'a'  died  laughing." 

"I  don't  see  anything  to  laugh  at,"  said  Philip. 
"You  did  n't  look  very  funny." 

She  disregarded  his  observation.  "I'm  so  terribly 
emotional,"  she  elucidated,  frankly.  "It  gets  me  into 
a  heap  o'  trouble.  My  sister  Queenie's  a  good  deal 
that  way,  too,  only  not  so  much  so.  She  's  more  the 
happy  type.  We  get  our  temperaments  from  mother. 
She's  sort  of  an  invalid;  at  least  she  thinks  she  is. 
You  know  what  I  mean;  I  ain't  saying  anything 
against  her ;  only  you  sort  o'  got  to  take  her  word 
for  it.  Gee!  that's  what  makes  it  rough  for  me  to  go 
and  lose  my  job  just  now.  We  ain't  paid  last  month's 
rent  yet." 

"Don't  you  think  perhaps  they  '11  take  you  back 
again?"  suggested  her  companion,  hopefully. 

She  gave  a  defiant  toss  to  her  head.  "Me  go  back 
there  ?  I  swore  up  and  down  I  'd  never  set  foot  again 

174 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


inside  the  cursed  door."  There  was  a  hint  of  melo- 
drama in  her  accent. 

"Why,"  said  Philip,  slightly  bewildered.  "I 
thought  you  said  he  fired  you." 

"He  did  fire  me.  He  does  every  once  in  a  while, 
because  he  knows  I'll  be  sure  to  come  back  again; 
and  he  counts  on  my  doin'  better  for  a  few  weeks 
after  that.  But  I  won't  go  this  time,  and  I  told  him 
so  to  his  face.  UghT^  —  She  screwed  up  her  face  into 
a  knot  of  disgust,  and  clenched  her  fists. 

"You  don't  like  it  there,  then?"  pursued  Philip. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do,  in  a  way.  — I'd  like  it  well  enough 
if  it  was  n't  for  Tibbs." 

"Tibbs?"  inquired  her  escort. 

"Yes,  Tibbs.  Oh,  say,  don't  you  know  Tibbs? 
Well,  you  certainly  miss  it,  not  knowing  Tibbs!" 

"Is  he  the  tall  man  with  the  black  beard?" 

"He  sure  is,  and  don't  you  forget  it.  That's  Tibbs 
all  right.  He  makes  life  a  veritable  tormentation  for 
me.  If  I  go  and  make  the  least  little  bit  of  a  mistake, 
say  like  sendin'  off  a  letter  in  the  wrong  envelope,  he 
goes  and  gets  crazy  mad  about  it.  Oh,  we  have  ter- 
rible scenes  in  there,  I  can  tell  you.  I  always  get  to 
bawling  like  Niagara  Falls,  he  excites  me  so.  I  never 
could  see  that  it  made  so  much  difference  about  the 
letters.  It's  all  the  same  line  of  rot  —  about  thinkin' 
harmony  thoughts,  you  know;  drawin'  currents  out 
o'  the  Infinite,  and  all  that.  But  Tibbs  says,  'It's  the 

175 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


touch  of  personality  that  counts,  Miss  Muller.'  Well, 
p'raps  it  does.  I  ain't  got  no  natural  aptitude  at  all 
for  business." 

"Your  tastes  lie  elsewhere,  I  take  it,"  remarked 
Philip,  more  amused  than  he  thought  quite  justifiable 
in  the  girPs  confessions. 

"Yes,  they  certainly  do,"  she  replied,  with  a  deep 
sigh.  "But  I  ain't  got  the  face  for  the  stage.  That's 
the  place  where  emotional  people  get  a  fair  show,  you 
know.  My  sister  Queenie 's  on  the  stage ;  she's  got  a 
job  in  the  chorus  of  the  ^  Pink  Butterfly.'  But  Lord, 
Queenie  can  do  something  with  her  face.  She's 
pretty  as  a  picture.  But  I  ain't  even  got  what  you'd 
call  a  good  foundation  for  a  face.  So  what  can  I  do  ?" 

No  helpful  suggestion  came  at  once  into  Philip's 
mind ;  and  they  had  turned  into  the  squalid  dinginess 
of  Smilax  Street  before  she  resumed. 

"I  kind  of  thought  some  of  goin'  into  settlement 
work.  But  they  say  you  got  to  have  a  terrible  pull  to 
get  in:  so  I  don't  suppose  there 'd  be  any  show  for 
me." 

She  heaved  another  deep  sigh.  "Oh,  well,  Tibbs 
may  win  out  again,  for  all  I  know.  I'm  in  the  man's 
clutches,  as  you  might  say,  on  account  of  the  rent  not 
bein'  paid.  Seems  to  me  I'm  fated  to  be  Tibbs's 
slave,  struggle  as  I  will.^^ 

They  came  to  a  halt  outside  a  rather  ramshackle- 
looking  apartment  house. 

176 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"You'd  better  come  up  a  little  while,"  she  said, 
turning  to  him  with  a  frapk  smile  of  invitation.  "You 
might  find  Queenie.  All  the  fellers  get  stuck  on  her. 
And  then  there's  ma.  She's  a  terrible  picnic  if  you 
happen  to  be  in  the  right  mood." 

He  hesitated,  vaguely  groping  for  an  excuse. 

"Oh,  come  on!"  she  urged.  "Just  a  few  minutes. 
I'm  sure  you  got  the  time  for  it." 

The  earnestness  of  her  request  surprised  him ;  and 
he  followed  her  up  three  flights  of  dimly  lighted 
stairs,  odorous  of  the  West  Side. 

"Look  here,"  she  remarked,  softly,  as  they  reached 
the  second  landing.  "You  ain't  told  me  what  your 
name  is." 

He  gave  it  to  her,  and  was  informed  in  return  that 
his  companion's  was  Irene  Muller. 

"Don't  tell  ma,"  she  cautioned,  "how  we  got  ac- 
quainted. She'd  think  I  was  fresh  to  beat  the  band. 
And  say,  don't  let  on  I'm  fired,  either.  I  suppose  I'll 
be  goin'  back  to-morrow." 


XVII 

A  MIDDLE-AGED  woman  in  a  much-belaced  tea- 
gown,  which  looked  frayed  and  soiled  even  under  the 
gaslight,  rose  from  a  sofa  as  they  entered,  and  laying 
by  a  well-thumbed  paper-covered  volume,  greeted 
the  girl  with  languid  effusion. 

"Home  again,  Irene!  —  You  are  late  to-night. 
The  time  has  seemed  long." 

She  placed  a  lingering  kiss  upon  the  girl's  brow, 
and  looked  down  into  her  face  with  fond  yearning. 
Philip  felt  as  if  he  were  in  a  Third-Avenue  Theatre, 
witnessing  the  entrance  of  the  heroine.  Such  a  touch- 
ing demonstration  of  maternal  affection  would  not 
have  gone  unrewarded  there.  As  it  was,  he  thought 
he  detected  in  Irene  a  certain  restiveness  under  the 
protracted  embrace  —  or  was  it  only  self-conscious- 
ness at  being  observed  by  a  young  man  ? 

"Yes,  ma,  dear,''  she  replied,  as  soon  as  release 
was  granted.  "I  could  n't  help  it.  There  was  a  lot  of 
letters  to  finish  up." 

"You  look  white  and  tired,  my  dear,"  said  the 
mother.   "Are  you  ill?" 

The  girl  had  a  rather  wry  smile.  "No,  I'm  fine," 
she  answered. 

"Good!  —  And   whom,"   went   on    the   mother, 
178 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


seeming  to  catch  sight  of  the  stranger  for  the  first 
time,  "whom  have  you  brought  with  you,  little  girl?" 

"Why,  this  is  Mr.  Wetherell,  ma,"  responded 
Irene,  promptly.  "Don't  you  remember  Mr.  Wether- 
ell ?  He  was  in  my  class  to  the  Commercial  College, 
you  know." 

The  invalid  had  an  air  of  searching  through  the 
recesses  of  memory ;  then  a  gracious  smile  dawned  in 
her  face.  "Ah,  to  be  sure!"  she  said.  "That  explains 
the  haunting  familiarity  of  his  features.  They  seemed 
to  cry  out  to  me  when  he  first  entered.  Wetherell,  of 
course.  Now  I  recall  perfectly.  It  is  a  pleasure  to 
welcome  you  once  more,  Mr.  Wetherell,  into  our 
little  home." 

"I  was  sure  you'd  like  to  have  a  Httle  chat  with 
him,"  explained  Irene,  solicitously.  "So  I  persuaded 
him  to  come  up.  I  met  him  to-day  just  by  accident. 
Were  n't  you  just  awfully  surprised,  Mr.  Wetherell, 
when  you  saw  me?" 

"On  my  word,  I  hardly  knew  whether  it  was  you 
or  not,"  declared  Philip,  truthfully,  wondering  upon 
what  seas  of  subterfuge  he  had  unintentionally  em- 
barked. 

"Ah,  what  a  mystery  it  all  is!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Muller,  with  affecting  eloquence.  "What  a  mystery! 
To  think  that  you  two  young  creatures,  after  all  these 
months  —  so  many  months !  —  of  separation,  should 
again  be  brought  face  to  face ;  again  exchange  greet- 

179 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


ings;  again  share  in  each  other's  lives.  —  Chance!  — 
Chancel  —  Is  this  Chance?" 

Rendered  vaguely  uncomfortable  by  so  inspired  a 
demand,  Philip  could  find  no  more  appropriate  re- 
joinder than  to  admit  that  it  was  indeed  very  strange. 

*^  Ships  that  pass  in  the  night,"  sighed  his  hostess, 
"and  signal  each  other  in  passing!  How  often  life 
proves  the  poet's  words  to  be  true." 

She  disposed  herself  once  more,  in  an  attitude  of 
beautiful  languor,  amongst  the  sofa-pillows,  and 
drew  a  faded  afghan  over  her  feet. 

*^My  little  Reny  has  doubtless  explained  to  you," 
she  murmured,  "that  I  am  one  of  the  Shut-Ins.  The 
same  old  story :  nerves !  —  You  were  very,  very  kind 
to  give  us  this  little  visit." 

Before  Philip  could  reply,  the  door  behind  him 
opened,  and  a  young  woman  of  prodigiously  modish 
appearance  made  a  brisk  entrance. 

"Ah,  it  is  our  Queenie,"  came  from  the  statuesque 
figure  on  the  sofa.  "Dear,  you  will  excuse  me  this 
once  for  not  rising.  The  mother  is  tired  to-night." 

"Sure,  ma,  that's  all  right,"  responded  the  new- 
comer, in  a  business-like  tone,  throwing  off  her  furs, 
negligently,  and  struggling  with  the  knot  of  a  won- 
drously  dotted  veil.  —  "Hello,  sis!  Say,  who's  the 
sport?" 

"Irene  has  brought  us  one  of  her  old  college  cronies 
for  a  little  visit,"  explained  Mrs.  Muller.    "Mr. 

1 80 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Wetherell,  this  is  my  other  little  girl,  Queenie.  You 
may  not  remember  her,  so  great  have  been  the  changes 
of  two  years." 

Philip  saw  a  rapid  look  of  intelligence  flash  be- 
tween the  sisters ;  and  the  question  that  was  on  the 
younger's  lips  remained  unspoken. 

"How  de  do !"  said  Queenie,  offhandedly.  —  "Say, 
sis,  give  me  some  help,  will  you,  with  this  lid.  It's 
caught  in  my  net,  somehow." 

While  the  two  girls  were  busy  over  the  intricate 
manoeuvre,  Mrs.  Muller  beckoned  Philip  to  her  side. 

"What  a  picture  of  youth  and  health  and  innocence 
they  present !"  she  whispered.  "Have  I  not  reason  to 
be  proud  of  my  little  brood?  " 

Philip  could  but  be  aware  that  he  was  being  mi- 
nutely studied  by  Queenie,  and  when,  for  an  instant, 
he  returned  her  gaze,  she  made  a  quick,  teasing  little 
pout,  intended  to  convey  to  him  that  he  need  not  have 
looked  at  her ;  but  that  if  he  would  look  at  her,  despite 
all  she  could  do,  why,  she  supposed  she  must  submit. 
Queenie  was  evidently  accustomed  to  being  looked 
at,  despite  all  she  could  do. 

Mrs.  Muller  bent  on  him  a  smile  that  glistened 
with  maternal  fondness. 

"So  alike,"  she  murmured,  "and  yet  so  different. 
One  so  airy,  so  joyous,  so  thoughtless.  I  call  Queenie 
my  little  sunbeam.  The  other  like  an  April  day,  — 
moods,  all  moods !  —  changeful,  restless,  yet  withal 

i8i 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


such  a  sturdy,  brave  little  being.  I  call  Irene  my  little 
staff.  —  Ah,  how  can  I  ever  express  to  any  one,  dear 
friend,  what  my  two  little  girls  have  meant  and  do 
mean  to  their  mother!" 

She  dashed  a  quick  shower  of  happy  tears  from  her 
eyes.  "You  will  excuse  a  mother  for  being  perhaps 
too  fond,"  she  apologized,  impulsively.  "The  tears 
will  not  be  held  back." 

Philip  perceived  that  any  embarrassment  on  his 
part  was  quite  uncalled  for.  The  shower  was  a  feat- 
ure of  the  play.  He  found  it  hard  not  to  smile  as  he 
recalled  what  Irene  had  said  to  him  of  her  maternal 
heritage  of  emotion. 

"A  young  man  may  well  be  proud,"  went  on  Mrs. 
Muller,  regaining  her  self-possession  with  a  notice- 
ably painful  effort,  "to  have  my  little  Reny  for  a 
friend.  Some  day  she  should  make  the  right  man 
very,  very  happy,  —  don't  you  think  so?" 

Her  auditor  squirmed  inwardly,  but  conceded  the 
expected  smile  of  acquiescence.  "Yes,  very  happy," 
he  murmured. 

By  this  time,  the  hat  having  been  disengaged,  it 
was  permitted  him  to  admire  the  startling  edifice  of 
golden  puffs  which  had  been  concealed  beneath  it  as 
fritters  under  a  dish-cover. 

"Got  anything  to  eat,  ma?"  inquired  Queenie. 
"I  sure  am  hungry." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,  so  sorry,  my  dear,"  replied  the 
182 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


lady  on  the  sofa,  pressing  the  back  of  a  hand  wanly 
to  one  temple.  "But  this  has  been  one  of  my  days. 
All  jangled,  girlie,  all  jangled,  like  an  instrument  out 
of  tune.  I  can't  describe  it.  I  Ve  scarcely  left  the  sofa 
since  breakfast.  I  thought  maybe  you  and  little 
Reny  would  n't  mind  scratching  together  something 
to-night." 

From  the  utterly  matter-of-fact  fashion  in  which 
this  announcement  was  received  by  the  girls,  Philip 
concluded  that  it  was  not  an  unprecedented  house- 
hold situation. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  ma,"  said  Queenie.  "But 
we'd  better  be  gettin'  a  move  on.  I  got  to  be  to  the 
theatre  early  to-night." 

"Mr.  Wetherell,"  put  in  the  mother,  "you  will  not 
deny  us  the  pleasure  of  your  company  at  our  simple 
home  supper?  My  little  girls  will  be  delighted." 

"Oh,  I'm  afraid  I'd  be  in  the  way,"  said  the 
visitor. 

"Not  at  all,"  protested  Irene.  "We'll  make  you 
useful.  We  '11  send  you  down  to  the  delicatessen  shop 
for  some  things,  —  eh,  Queenie?" 

"Sure,  let  him  stay,"  agreed  that  young  woman, 
with  a  careless  little  toss  of  the  head,  which  implied 
to  the  visitor  that  she  did  not  care  a  rap  whether  he 
stayed  or  went,  even  though  he  was  so  persistent  in 
looking  at  her.  "Though  for  that  matter,"  she  went 
on,  "he  won't  get  a  very  swell  layout.  —  You  see, 

183 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Mr.  Wetherell,  as  I  'm  on  the  stage,  we  never  have 
anything  very  hearty  at  night." 

The  two  sisters  retired  to  investigate  the  larder,  and 
Philip  was  left,  for  a  short  time,  alone  with  Mrs. 
Muller. 

"These  strange  nervous  times  of  mine,"  she  began, 
confidentially,  with  a  reviving  sniff  at  a  tarnished 
vinaigrette.  "The  doctors  are  completely  baffled. 
They  tell  me  some  of  the  symptoms  may  pass  off; 
but  I  can  see  from  the  way  they  say  it  they  scarcely 
expect  a  change  for  the  better." 

She  dropped  her  voice.  "The  heart  is  affected, 
too."  She  pressed  one  hand  to  it.  "To-day  it  has 
fluttered  like  a  frightened  bird  from  the  moment  I 
awoke  this  morning.  But  I  would  not  have  my  little 
girls  know  it  for  worlds." 

"I  will  not  tell  them,"  promised  Philip. 

"Ah,  that  is  good  of  you!  They  idolize  their 
mother,"  she  murmured;  and  once  more  resorted  to 
her  handkerchief. 

Philip  suspected  that  he  was  called  on  to  exclaim, 
"No  wonder!"  but  he  could  not  quite  bring  himself 
to  it. 

"I  am  a  very  faulty  mother  to  them,"  she  confessed. 
"I  fall  short  of  my  ideal  in  a  thousand  ways.  And 
yet,  Mr.  Wetherell,  our  home  life  is  beautiful  beyond 
words.  You  have  had  a  little  glimpse  of  it  already. 
You  shall  see  more.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  that  some 

184 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


day  it  must  be  broken  in  upon ;  but  of  course  changes 
must  come,  sooner  or  later,  in  this  mysterious  world 
of  ours." 

There  was  a  pregnant  silence,  while  Philip  listened 
enviously  to  the  chatter  of  the  girls  in  the  kitchen, 
wondering  how  long  it  would  be  before  they  returned. 

"I  suppose  it  would  be  vain  to  deny,"  said  Mrs. 
Muller,  "that  Queenie  is  the  superior  in  looks;  but 
am  I  wrong,  Mr.  Wetherell,  in  claiming  that  my  little 
Irene  has  one  of  the  most  charming,  interesting,  un- 
usual personalities  in  the  world?  You,  who  know 
her  so  well,  will  agree  with  me,  I  am  sure.  She  is  all 
emotion.  —  But  hush,  I  hear  her  coming!" 

She  put  two  fingers  with  a  theatrical  gesture  to  her 
lips,  and  murmured,  "The  rest  another  time,"  as 
Irene  entered. 

"Well,  well,  I  guess  it's  time  I  came,"  said  the 
girl,  "if  that's  what  you're  up  to.  —  Come,  Mr. 
Wetherell,  I'm  going  with  you.  I'm  afraid  you 
could  n't  choose  things  right." 

He  followed  her  with  relief;  and  they  scampered 
down  the  stairs  to  the  street.  There  she  turned 
shortly  upon  him. 

"Look  here,"  she  said.  "Do  you  think  this  is  just 
an  awful  joke  I'm  putting  up  on  you?" 

"If  it  is,"  he  replied,  laughing,  "I'm  getting  my 
share  of  fun  out  of  it." 

"Well,  it  is  n't  a  joke,"  she  said.  "PFe're  kind  of  a 
185 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


joke  —  as  a  family,  I  mean ;  but  that 's  not  the  point. 
I  Ve  got  a  queer  proposition  to  make  to  you.  Are  you 
game?" 

"If  it 's  anything  in  my  line,"  answered  her  com- 
panion, promptly,  unable  to  make  the  least  conjecture 
as  to  what  was  coming. 

*'Well,  listen  then,"  she  began,  seizing  his  arm 
familiarly,  both  to  dispel  her  embarrassment  and  to 
get  closer  to  his  ear.  "You  know  the  way  you  treated 
me  this  afternoon?  Well,  that  made  an  awful  deep 
impression  on  me.  I've  been  thinkin'  about  it  ever 
since.  I  said  to  myself,  ^That  man  must  be  on  the 
dead  level,  or  he  would  n't  have  gone  and  took  all 
that  trouble  for  a  perfect  fright  of  a  girl  like  you.  It 
was  just  because  he  was  kind-hearted  that  he  done 
that,'  I  said  to  myself.  And  I  felt  sure  that  if  I  told 
you  about  somebody  who  was  awfully  up  against  it, 
you'd  be  willin'  to  do  what  you  could  to  help.  Ain't 
I  right,  Mr.  Wetherell?" 

There  was  a  pleading,  tremulous  earnestness  in  her 
tone  that  went  straight  to  the  man's  heart.  He  would 
not  have  been  himself  if  he  had  not  said  what  he  did. 

"Of  course  I  would,"  he  answered. 

She  gave  a  grateful  pinch  to  his  arm.  "I  knew  it," 
she  cried.   "  Oh,  I  just  knew  it ! " 

There  was  a  little  pause,  while  she  sought  words 
to  go  on.  It  evidently  was  not  easy,  the  thing  she 
had  to  say. 

i86 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"It's  me  that's  in  trouble,  Mr.  Wetherell." 

"About  Tibbs?"  he  asked. 

"Tibbs!  Oh,  say,  Tibbs  is  a  joke.  That  don't 
worry  me  at  all.  That  was  only  one  of  my  emotional 
fits.  What  I  mean  is  something  dead  serious,  Mr. 
Wetherell.  You  won't  mind  if  I'm  awful  frank,  will 
you?" 

He  reassured  her. 

"Well,  you  must  have  seen  already  what  an  awful 
fool  ma  is.  You  don't  need  to  tell  me  so ;  because  I 
know  it.  Well,  you  don't  know  much  about  Queenie ; 
but  she  takes  after  ma  something  surprising.  She 's 
only  a  kid,  you  know;  and  about  the  limit  when  it 
comes  to  common  sense.  She's  pretty  interested  in 
her  job,  and  I  think  she's  goin'  to  get  on  all  right 
with  it.  But  that's  not  everything  —  gettin'  on  —  is 
it,  Mr.  Wetherell?" 

She  turned  her  homely  Httle  face  up  to  him,  ur- 
gently, in  the  hope  that  he  would  be  quick  to  under- 
stand her  drift.  Yes,  he  did  understand.  She  plunged 
at  once  into  the  heart  of  her  problem. 

"You  know  it's  different,  Mr.  Wetherell,  when  it's 
your  own  sister.  I  see  other  girls  make  fools  of  them- 
selves, and  I  don't  seem  to  care  very  much;  but 
Queenie 's  different.  I  sort  of  feel  as  if  she  belonged 
to  me,  you  know,  she's  such  a  kid,  and  I've  had  to 
look  out  for  her  so  much,  myself,  what  with  mother 
being  the  way  she  is,  and  all." 

187, 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Philip  looked  down  at  his  companion,  certainly 
less  than  twenty,  still,  herself;  and  a  stanch,  moth- 
erly quality  in  her  that  he  had  not  felt  before  struck 
him  with  peculiar  emphasis. 

^^Queenie's  nice  inside,  you  know,  Mr.  Wetherell. 
She's  only  silly.  She's  the  kind  that  ought  to  keep 
straight  and  marry  a  nice  man  some  day.  Gee!  I 
think  it  would  kill  me,  I  do  honestly,  if  little  Queenie 
went  wrong." 

"Is  there  danger  of  it?"  Philip  asked. 

The  girl  nodded,  dully,  and  kept  her  eyes  straight 
ahead  of  her,  while  she  went  on  in  a  strained  voice, 

*' Queenie 's  got  the  idea  that  she  can't  get  on,  un- 
less she  does  like  the  rest  —  you  know  what  I  mean. 
Say,  is  that  true,  Mr.  Wetherell?" 

Again  she  looked  up  at  him  pleadingly  from  under 
her  flopping  beaver-brim,  and  her  clasp  on  his  arm 
tightened. 

"It  can't  be,"  he  answered.  "I  'm  sure  it  can't  be." 

The  clasp  relaxed,  and  he  heard  a  sigh  of  reassur- 
ance. 

"But  that's  her  idea,"  said  Irene.  "And  there's 
a  man  who's  after  her,  and  he's  bound  to  get  her. 
He's  got  money  to  burn,  and  he'll  give  her  all  the 
automobile  rides  she'll  stand  for,  and  supper  after 
the  show,  and  buy  her  anything  she  wants.  Oh,  Mr. 
Wetherell,  ain't  there  any  way  of  keepin'  her  back? 
Are  n't  you  goin'  to  try  to  help  me  ?  I  know  I  'm  fresh 

i88 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


as  the  dickens  to  ask  you ;  but  honestly,  I  don't  know 
who  to  go  to  if  you  turn  me  down." 

The  man  gave  her  a  dubious  look.  "But  do  you 
think  I  could  have  any  influence?"  he  asked. 

"That's  just  it,"  she  rejoined,  eagerly.  "Oh,  I'm 
sure  you  could.  You've  made  quite  a  hit  with  her  al- 
ready.  She  just  says  to  me  out  there  in  the  kitchen,  — 

"^Say,  Reny,'  says  she,  there's  something  you 
can  always  tell  a  real  gentleman  by,  ain't  they?' 

"'Why,'  says  I,  'what  do  you  mean?' 

"'Did  you  notice,'  says  she,  'the  way  your  friend 
behaves  so  nice  to  ma  ?  —  He 's  the  real  cultured 
thing,  he  is.' 

"Say,  Mr.  Wetherell,  that  ain't  bad,  is  it,  for  seven- 
teen? She's  there,  all  right,  Queenie  is,  when  she 
wants  to  be." 

They  arrived  at  the  delicatessen  shop,  and  it  was 
not  till  several  minutes  later  that  Reny  had  a  chance 
to  return  to  the  subject.  Meanwhile  her  companion 
was  making  a  rapid  mental  review  of  her  proposal. 

He  saw  himself  placed  in  a  dilemma.  If  he  refused 
to  put  at  her  disposition  what  assistance  he  might 
—  conceivably  —  have  to  offer,  if  he  turned  his  back 
on  her  plea,  he  would  be  doing  violence  to  the  thing 
in  himself  that  was  most  truly  and  deeply  himself. 
Certainly  it  was  audacious  of  her  to  address  herself 
thus  to  a  comparative  stranger  in  so  highly  personal 
a  difficulty ;  yet  her  very  audacity,  her  tremulous  as- 

189 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


surance  that  he  would  not  refuse  her  nor  misunder- 
stand her,  touched  all  the  chivalry  of  his  nature. 
How  could  he  refuse? 

On  the  other  hand,  if  he  accepted,  and  earnestly 
undertook  to  do  something  that  would  help  Queenie 
hold  her  own,  how  anomalous,  how  absurd,  how 
impossible,  was  the  moral  situation  in  which  he  would 
be  placed.  Having  adopted  a  compromise  in  his  own 
plan  of  life,  he  would  yet  be  posing  as  a  preacher  and 
exemplar  of  social  morality.  To  pretend  to  be  what 
he  was  not  was  again  to  violate  one  of  the  deepest 
qualities  of  his  nature. 

Yet  in  all  his  life  he  had  not  wilfully  left  helpless 
any  creature  that  had  appealed  to  his  impulses  of 
protection.  And  it  occurred  to  him  now  that  some 
way  might  still  be  found  of  reconciling  what  at  first 
blush  appeared  to  be  irreconcilable  demands.  At  all 
events,  he  would  —  must  —  go  ahead,  and  the  situa- 
tion could  be  left  to  work  itself  out  as  it  would. 

He  accepted  from  Irene  a  large  paper  bag,  in  which 
the  red-faced  German  behind  the  counter  had  skil- 
fully stowed  away  an  assortment  of  comestibles,  — 
calf's  tongue,  potato  salad,  cheese,  bread,  and  jam,  — 
and  the  two  left  the  shop.  At  once  the  girl  turned  to 
him  with  a  look  of  hungry  question.  She  knew  from 
his  silence  that  he  had  been  thinking. 

"Well?''  she  asked. 

For  a  moment  he  did  not  answer.  She  clutched 
190 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


his  sleeve,  and  peered  into  his  face,  with  an  expression 
of  fright  and  despair. 

"You  ain't  goin'  to  throw  me  down,  Mr.  Weth- 
erell?'' 

"I  have  n't  any  right  to  believe  there's  anything  I 
can  do,"  replied  Philip,  gravely.  "But  I  promise 
you  I'll  do  the  best  I  can." 

Her  homely  features  grew  almost  beautiful  for  the 
radiance  of  gratitude  that  illumined  them. 

"Oh!"  she  broke  out,  "that's  fine!  I'm  tickled  to 
pieces!  I  was  sure  you  wouldn't  leave  me  in  the 
lurch." 

He  asked  her  what  she  proposed  doing. 

"The  thing  is,  Mr.  Wetherell,  she  picks  up  ideas 
terrible  quick.  She  wants  to  be  exactly  like  other 
people.  Just  now  she 's  got  the  idea  that  all  men  are 
alike,  you  know,  and  that  it  don't  pay  to  hold  on.  Now 
I  think  all  she  needs  is  for  a  nice,  refined  man,  a  man 
who's  all  on  the  level,  to  be  a  friend  to  her.  You've 
no  idea  what  a  lot  o'  influence  you  can  have." 

Recalling  what  he  had  seen  of  Queenie's  behaviour, 
Philip  could  but  entertain  his  doubts  of  the  efiicacy  of 
Irene's  prescription.  But  he  held  his  peace,  and 
showed  himself  amenable  to  her  eager  proposals. 

Before  they  reached  home,  she  had  suggested  to 
him  that  he  should  see  the  kid  to  the  theatre  that 
evening,  and  make  a  date  with  her  for  some  Sunday 
afternoon  in  the  near  future. 

191 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"Just  you  two,  you  know,"  she  explained,  simply. 
*^  She '11  have  a  better  time  than  if  any  one  else  was 
along.  And  she'll  feel  sort  o'  flattered  because  you 
took  her,  don't  you  know,  and  I  stayed  to  home." 

Philip  would  have  protested;  but  she  headed  him 
off. 

"This  ain't  no  tea-party,  Mr.  Wetherell.  It's 
business  for  both  of  us ;  and  you  an'  me  are  goin'  to 
work  it  for  all  that's  there." 


XVIII 

Despite  the  grotesque  absurdities  of  her  get-up, 
Queenie  Muller  was  undeniably  a  beauty.  Her 
features  were  small,  and  as  faultlessly  regular  as 
those  of  a  wax-model.  Her  complexion,  still  unrav- 
aged  by  the  cosmetics  of  the  theatre,  had  the  satiny 
freshness  of  a  flower.  Her  eyes  had  a  way  of  open- 
ing very  wide,  with  a  beguiling  expression  of  wonder 
and  innocence ;  and  when  she  smiled,  a  double  row 
of  pearly  white  teeth,  like  the  milk-teeth  of  a  child, 
peeped  into  view. 

A  hundred  times  on  the  course  of  their  journey  to 
the  theatre  PhiHp  found  himself  wondering  that  she 
should  even  have  reached  the  age  of  seventeen  without 
having  accepted  the  bait  which  the  city  so  cunningly 
and  so  pertinaciously  offers  to  youthful  beauty.  Her 
eyes  were  never  for  a  moment  quiet,  but  wandered 
curiously  up  and  down  the  car,  casting  conscious, 
demure  glances  at  the  various  men  ranged  opposite; 
and  if  a  glance  were  returned,  she  would  drop  them 
at  once,  with  a  look  of  modest  denial,  to  the  floor, 
while  two  little  white  teeth  were  set  reprovingly  upon 
her  under  lip.  She  had  a  trick,  too,  of  advancing  her 
tiny  feet,  in  their  impossibly  high-heeled  shoes  and 
yellow-clocked  hose,  inch  by  inch  into  the  aisle ;  then, 

193 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


as  if  suddenly  becoming  aware  of  their  conspicuous- 
ness,  drawing  them  quickly  back,  and  making  a  mani- 
fest effort  to  cover  them  from  view  with  her  much- 
abbreviated  walking  skirt.  If  ever  a  moth  played 
with  flame,  't  was  Queenie. 

Yet  she  clearly  was  gratified  by  his  company ;  and 
when  he  suggested  that  they  take  a  little  jaunt  to- 
gether on  Sunday,  she  gave  vent  to  an  exclamation 
of  spontaneous  delight  that  surprised  him. 

**  Just  you  an'  me  ?  Do  you  mean  that,  Mr.  Weth- 
erell?"  she  added,  as  a  doubt  arrested  her  enthusiasm. 

*^ That's  what  I  meant,"  he  replied.  "Would  you 
rather  have  some  one  else  along?" 

He  hated  the  necessity  that  made  him  seem  to 
slight  the  lonely  sister  at  home ;  but  this  was  accord- 
ing to  the  prescription ;  and  the  prescription  was  to 
be  given  a  fair  trial. 

"Oh,  no!  Just  ourselves!"  He  could  read  the 
flattered  comment  she  was  inwardly  making.  "It 
will  be  perfectly  bully!" 

Bidding  her  au  revoir  at  the  stage  door,  Philip  set 
out  afoot  upon  his  homeward  way,  so  deeply  immersed 
in  depressing  reflections  that  he  scarcely  gave  any  no- 
tice to  the  gay  throngs  which  were  beginning  already 
to  flock  into  the  garish  parade  of  Broadway. 

Foolish  and  empty-headed  as  she  was,  Queenie's 
youth  and  her  defencelessness  had  profoundly 
touched  him.  How  hungry  for  her  was  the  pitiless, 

194 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


careless  city;  how  eager  to  fling  her  upon  the  insati- 
able altars  of  Pleasure,  a  victim  of  those  barbarous 
rites  that  accept  no  other  sacrifice  than  quivering 
human  hearts.  This  was  civilization,  reflected 
Philip :  a  figure  that  Hfted  on  high  the  cross  and  the 
lamp,  while  under  its  feet  it  trod  to  death  its  own 
offspring. 

Had  humanity  no  palace  in  which  some  remote 
apartment  was  not  dedicated  to  the  four-footed  Mino- 
taur of  appetite  ?  Even  now,  in  dark  side  streets,  in 
poverty-stricken  tenements  and  murky  dance-halls, 
the  hostage  of  youth  and  ignorance  was  being  drafted 
for  him. 

He  remembered  what  Barry  had  said  of  the  talon, 
the  tusk,  and  the  fang.  Was  it,  after  all,  the  same 
here  as  in  the  dank  corridors  of  the  jungle,  —  inex- 
orable instincts,  hunger,  lust,  destruction,  wreaking 
their  will  upon  the  weak  ?  To  attempt  to  hold  them 
back  from  their  chosen  prey  —  was  it  not  as  vain  as 
to  attempt  to  thwart  the  law  of  gravitation?  The 
predatory  instinct  was  a  fact  of  nature. 

Perhaps.  And  yet  —  how  the  heart  cried  out  in 
protest !  If  at  one  moment  Philip  could  say  to  himself 
that  the  lamb  frisking  gayly  down  the  jungle  path 
was  sure  to  be  pounced  upon,  sooner  or  later,  by  the 
wolf  in  waiting,  —  such  was  the  inalterable  mandate 
of  the  Social  Order,  —  at  the  next,  he  must  remember 
with  a  pang  the  white,  stricken,  pleading  face  of 

^95 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


Queenie's  youthful  protector,  as  she  had  looked  up 
at  him  with  the  words,  — 

"It  makes  a  difference,  don't  it,  Mr.  Wetherell, 
when  it's  your  own  sister?" 

No  thought  of  the  ultimate  wisdom  or  folly  of  his 
enterprise  really  concerned  him,  or  could  affect  the 
spirit  of  his  endeavour.  He  had  given  his  promise  to 
Irene.  He  had  seen  for  himself,  only  too  well,  the 
danger  in  which  Queenie  was  placed,  and  which  she 
aggravated  by  every  possible  effort  of  her  own.  And 
he  was  going  to  do  what  he  could,  —  what  though 
failure  might  be  the  issue? 

Arrived  at  his  lodgings,  he  lighted  his  pipe,  and 
settled  himself  for  an  evening  of  study,  partly  to  ease 
his  mind  of  its  burden  of  conflicting  thoughts,  partly 
in  pursuance  of  a  carefully  chosen  programme  of 
home  reading.  His  bank  design  had  won  a  mention 
in  the  competition,  and  the  fact  had  given  him  an 
additional  impetus  to  master,  in  so  far  as  he  could, 
the  secular  architecture  of  Renaissance  Italy.  He 
longed  to  imbue  himself  with  the  spirit,  so  robiist, 
yet  so  delicate,  of  those  Italian  builders ;  to  see  life,  in 
some  measure,  with  their  enamoured  eyes.  Just  now 
he  was  deep  in  a  second  volume  of  critical  studies  of 
the  palaces  of  Florence. 

Scarcely,  however,  had  he  turned  the  second  page 
in  his  evening's  reading,  when  there  was  a  knock  at 
the  door,  and  his  fellow-lodger  entered. 

196 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


"Working?"  asked  Barry. 

It  was  perfectly  evident  that  Philip  was  working. 
Under  ordinary  circumstances  Barry  would  have  been 
prompt  to  apologize  for  the  interruption,  and  to  with- 
draw. But  the  tone  of  his  question  betrayed,  to  the 
young  man's  mind,  the  hope  of  a  negative  answer. 

"No,"  he  replied.  "Just  fooling  a  little  with  the 
same  old  picture-book." 

He  flopped  the  volume  shut,  left  his  chair,  and  took 
a  favourite  attitude  of  his  when  in  talk  —  standing  with 
his  back  to  the  stove,  legs  apart,  hands  joined  behind 
him. 

An  odd  sort  of  non-committal  intimacy  had  grown 
up  between  the  two  men  in  the  past  months.  Each 
knew  the  quality  of  the  other's  mind  with  surprising 
fulness ;  yet  there  had  been  from  the  first  a  complete 
reticence  as  regards  matters  distinctively  personal  in 
nature.  Philip  knew  no  more  now  than  he  had  at  the 
end  of  the  first  week  of  their  acquaintance  what  his 
neighbour's  story  might  be  —  whence  he  came,  what 
he  was  doing,  and  what  was  the  tragic  burden  that 
so  often  visibly  excoriated  his  spirit,  bringing  the 
sardonic,  contemptuous  challenge  into  his  cavernous 
eyes.  In  return,  too  sensitive  to  force  an  intimacy 
where  it  was  not  mutually  desired,  the  young  man 
had  entertained  an  equal  reticence  in  regard  to  him- 
self. He  sometimes  wondered  whether  this  detached, 
guardedly  partial  fellowship  —  a  fellowship  purely  of 

197 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


mind,  it  seemed  to  him  —  had  enough  warmth  in  it 
to  deserve  the  title  of  friendship.  He  could  not  help 
being  a  little  resentful,  indeed,  of  Barry's  unimpeach- 
able reserve.  More  than  once  he  had  seemed  to  be 
conscious  of  a  contrary  impulse  straining  at  the  leash ; 
but  if  such  were  the  case,  the  impulse  had  till  now 
always  been  sternly  repressed.  Passionately  vehe- 
ment, often,  in  thought  and  behaviour,  his  neighbour 
had  yet  kept  himself  arrogantly  aloof  in  every  personal 
interest.  His  passion  appeared  to  spend  itself  ex- 
clusively upon  ideas. 

But  to-night,  for  the  first  time,  Philip  detected  a 
quite  different  quality  in  the  man's  voice.  A  second 
glance  at  him  discovered  a  haggard,  nervously  dis- 
traught expression  of  countenance  that  made  him 
wonder  if  he  were  ill. 

"I  can't  work,"  said  Barry,  curtly.  "I  can't  read. 
I  can't  sleep.  I  can't  loaf.  Don't  you  want  to  amuse 
me?" 

The  forced  flippancy  of  his  visitor's  manner  was 
jarringly  out  of  accord  with  the  intense  earnestness  of 
his  accents. 

"I  don't  know  that  I'm  well  qualified  for  court  en- 
tertainer," rejoined  Philip.  "What  do  you  want  me 
to  do?" 

"D'  you  play  poker?"  asked  Barry. 

"Sure.  —  Want  a  game?" 

"Good!"  said  Barry,  twisting  his  stogie  ner/ously 
198 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


between  his  thin  lips.  "Will  you  come  into  my 
shebang?" 

Philip  followed  him  into  the  front  apartment, 
whose  severely  bare  walls  and  sparsity  of  furniture 
would  have  befitted  the  abode  of  an  anchorite.  A 
single  shelf  of  biological  pamphlets  and  reference 
works ;  a  wall  case  containing  microscopic  apparatus 
and  supplies ;  and  the  large,  bare  work-table,  on  one 
end  of  which  lay  a  heap  of  portfolios  and  some  draw- 
ing materials,  constituted  sufficient  evidence  of  the 
tenant's  avocation.  The  bareness  of  the  room  was  un- 
relieved by  any  disguising  touch.  A  pair  of  wrinkled 
congress  boots  stood  beside  the  bed ;  a  time-yellowed 
overcoat  and  a  slouch  hat  were  thrown  negligently 
across  its  footboard;  and  over  the  back  of  a  chair, 
in  a  far  corner  of  the  room,  dangled  several  nonde- 
script articles  of  underclothing.  The  appearance  of 
the  counterpane  indicated  that  the  occupant  of  the 
room  had  been  lying  there  with  his  shoes  on. 

Philip  detected  a  strong  odour  of  coffee  in  the  air, 
and  noticed  a  tin  pot  still  steaming  on  the  little  gas- 
stove  that  stood  on  a  chair  by  the  washstand.  An 
unwashed  cup  had  been  set  down  on  the  bureau. 

He  could  not  account  for  it  to  himself;  but  he  had 
the  sudden  impression  of  entering  a  chamber  of  tor- 
ture :  a  place  where  the  soul  of  a  man  had  been  drawn 
on  the  rack. 

Barry  jerked  open  a  drawer,  and  flung  things 
199 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


about  this  way  and  that  in  his  search  for  cards  and 
chips. 

'*I  must  have  them  somewhere,"  he  declared, 
harshly;  then  stopped  and  shoved  his  hand  through 
his  unkempt  hair.  "I  believe  I  have  n't,  after  all,"  he 
said.  "Here's  some  chessmen;  but,  hang  it  all,  I 
don't  feel  like  chess,  do  you?" 

Philip  fetched  the  requisites  for  the  desired  game 
from  his  own  room,  and  they  sat  down  to  play.  For 
the  next  half  hour  the  only  sounds  to  be  heard  in  the 
apartment  were  the  whirr  and  snap  of  the  cards  as 
they  were  shuffled,  cut,  and  dealt,  the  click  of  the 
chips,  and  the  terse,  stereotyped  phrases  of  the  game : 
—  "How  many?"  — "See  you!"  — "Take  it," — 
"Your  deal,"  —  and  the  rest. 

Barry  devoted  himself  to  the  business  in  hand  with  a 
stem,  unremitting  intentness  that  was  as  far  as  possi- 
ble, apparently,  from  enjoyment.  The  veins  stood  out 
on  his  temples  in  blue  ridges ;  his  hands  trembled  as 
he  took  up  or  threw  down  his  cards ;  and  whether  he 
won  or  lost,  the  fixed,  white  set  of  his  lips  on  his  cigar 
never  relaxed,  save  as  he  occasionally  removed  it  an 
instant  to  cough  or  to  spit  out  a  chewed  shred  of  to- 
bacco. There  was  an  electrical  tension  in  the  atmos- 
phere, as  if  something  startling  might  be  expected  to 
happen  at  any  moment.  Philip  felt  himself  becoming 
keyed  up  to  an  intolerable  pitch  of  excitement,  he 
could  not  have  told  why. 

200 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Suddenly,  without  a  word  of  warning,  Barry  flung 
down  his  cards  and  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"I  can't  do  this  any  more,"  he  announced. 
"That  ends  it  for  to-night.  Do  you  want  some 
coffee?" 

He  lighted  the  gas-stove;  and  while  the  beverage 
was  heating  again,  he  paced  up  and  down  the 
room,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"What  are  we  going  to  do  next?"  he  demanded, 
roughly. 

"How  about  a  little  walk?"  suggested  Philip, 
feeling  an  extreme  hunger  for  fresh  air  and  open  sky. 

His  companion  flashed  him  a  penetrating  look. 
"Did  you  say  you  wanted  to  go  to  walk?"  he  asked. 

"Not  unless  you  feel  inclined." 

"Will  you  stay  with  me  till  we  get  back  home?" 

"Certainly  I  will,"  answered  the  other,  in  some 
surprise. 

"Let's  go.  —  Here,  —  there's  your  coffee." 

He  filled  the  cup  with  a  steaming  black  fluid  and 
offered  it  to  his  guest.  Philip  declined.  Barry  gulped 
it  down  with  avidity;  filled  and  emptied  a  second 
time,  and  replaced  the  cup  on  the  washstand.  The 
boy  heard  it  rattle  on  the  marble  slab,  and  knew  how 
unsteady  must  be  the  hand  that  held  it.  An  instant 
later  the  two  sallied  forth. 

Barry  gripped  his  companion's  arm  almost  savagely. 
They  turned  down  toward  the  North  River  docks. 

20I 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


The  night  was  nipping  cold.  West  Street  was  well- 
nigh  deserted.  A  great  assemblage  of  drays  and 
market-trucks,  untackled  for  the  night,  and  covered, 
many  of  them,  with  sheets  of  canvas,  filled  the  middle 
of  the  wide  thoroughfare.  Innumerable  ranks  of 
barrels,  stacks  of  crates,  pyramids  of  baled  hay,  were 
ranged  along  the  pier  fronts,  casting  odd  shadows 
under  the  hissing  arc  lights.  Against  a  luminous  sky 
the  wide  steamship  piers  cut  sharp,  blocky  outlines; 
and  here  and  there,  above  the  pattern,  the  funnel  of 
some  ocean  greyhound  threw  out  a  short,  black 
spoke.  Overhead  a  multitude  of  stars  kept  watch. 

The  two  men  walked  rapidly,  almost  without 
speech,  for  a  long  time ;  and  as  they  walked,  Philip, 
his  arm  closely  locked  by  the  older  man's,  grew  aware 
that  the  crushing  weight  of  the  other's  tragedy  was 
slowly  transfusing  itself  over  his  spirit.  Whatever  it 
was,  it  was  terrible.  The  consuming  presence  of  it 
appalled  him ;  and  yet  he  felt  a  secret,  thrilling  delight 
in  the  consciousness  that  somehow  or  other  a  barrier 
that  had  separated  them  was  being  demolished ;  that 
after  this,  the  old  impersonal  reticence,  which  he  had 
found  so  uncongenial,  could  never  again  be  what  it 
had  been.  Their  relationship  was  altering  from  minute 
to  minute.  He  had  a  premonition  that  he  was  on  the 
brink  of  some  momentous  revelation. 

It  came  sooner  than  he  expected,  even.  His  com- 
panion suddenly  flung  the  butt  of  his  cigar  into  the 

202 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


gutter,  and  broke  out  in  a  voice  of  despair  that  could 
be  no  longer  suppressed. 

"Oh!  How  I  hate  it!  How  I  despise  it  all ! " 

"What?"  said  Philip. 

"Life !  Death  in  life !  The  curse  of  it !  What  right 
has  life  to  put  shackles  on  me  ?  What  right  ?  Have  n't 
I  my  claim  to  freedom  like  another?  Why  should  a 
past,  for  which  I  am  in  no  way  responsible,  hold  me 
with  unbreakable  fetters?" 

Philip  had  no  answer  to  make ;  and  they  pursued 
their  way  with  unrelaxed  speed  down  the  deserted 
thoroughfare.  Out  of  a  sailors'  grog-shop  a  short 
distance  ahead  lurched  two  men  in  mariner's  slops, 
singing  thickly.  With  a  convulsive  movement  of  re- 
coil, Barry  swung  his  companion  abruptly  round,  and 
they  began  to  retrace  their  steps.  A  horror  settled  upon 
the  boy's  mind. 

"Two  years  ago,"  said  Barry,  in  a  low  voice, 
shaken  with  excitement,  "I  was  the  coming  man  in 
my  university.  Every  one  knew  that.  I  was  winning 
a  national  reputation  among  biologists.  I  was  in  a 
position  of  influence  and  respect,  with  a  splendid 
future  ahead  of  me.  And  I  'd  earned  it  —  my  God ! 
I  'd  earned  it.  I  'd  fought  every  step  of  the  way  —  do 
you  understand  ?  —  fought  with  my  bare  hands !  I  'd 
wrenched  my  success  out  of  the  very  jaws  of  privation 
and  opposition,  with  everything  against  me  from  the 
start.  Not  a  soul  in  the  world  ever  rendered  me  any 

203 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


help.  What  I  had  done  I  had  done  alone! — Well, 
look  at  me!" 

He  separated  himself  an  instant  from  his  compan- 
ion, and  spread  his  hands  with  a  gesture  of  self- 
derision. 

"Cursed,  sir;  cursed  and  shackled  from  my  birth. 
One  of  my  titles  I  received  as  a  birthright;  the 
other  is  a  maternal  heirloom.  I  like  to  say  them  over 
to  myself.  Bastard.  —  Drunkard.  —  Drunkard.  — 
Bastard.  —  Ha,  very  pretty,  don't  you  think?" 

Philip  thought  he  saw  the  man  totter,  as  a  hor- 
rible laugh  shook  his  gaunt  frame.  He  caught  him 
by  the  shoulder,  and  half  pushed  him  onward 
until  he  had  regained  possession  of  his  quailing 
limbs. 

"Don't  think  about  it,  old  man,"  he  directed, 
mandatorily.  "You're  making  good  now.  You're 
going  to  win  out  in  spite  of  everything." 

"Oh,  yes,  this  time.  I  may  stave  it  off  this  time," 
replied  Barry,  weakly.  "But  what  about  next  time? 
And  what  about  the  time  after  ?  The  curse  does  n't 
depart." 

Philip's  arm  was  across  his  shoulders  like  that  of 
a  brother.  "You'll  have  it  under  your  feet  before 
you're  done,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  bracing,  restorative  confidence  in  his 
voice.  Barry  made  no  answer ;  but  Philip  heard  him 
filling  his  lungs  with  the  crisp  night  air.  As  they  left 

204 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


the  water-front  and  turned  up  into  the  city,  he  felt  the 
man's  shoulders  taking  a  determined  set. 

"I  think  that 's  over  for  this  time,"  said  Barry. 
"For  eight  months  I  have  n't  taken  a  drop.  And  I 
don't  intend  to,  if  I  have  to  stay  in  hell  for  the  rest  of 
my  life." 

"You'll  succeed,"  said  the  younger  man.  "You 
can't  fail." 

"I  can  manage  all  right  usually;  I'm  sure  of  my- 
self," said  Barry.  "But  then,  some  day,  all  of  a  sud- 
den, the  thing  takes  hold  of  me.  It's  like  a  mirage  in 
the  Sahara,  when  the  traveller  is  dead  from  thirst. 
The  very  desire  is  an  intoxication;  it's  an  enchant- 
ment, a  dazzling  obsession  that  will  not  leave  you,  no 
matter  how  you  fight  against  it.  You  'd  sell  your 
clothes  off  your  back,  the  brains  out  of  your  head, 
for  one  drop." 

The  tide  of  pity  in  the  young  man's  heart  found 
no  eloquence  of  words,  yet  the  older  man  felt  it  and 
took  strength  from  it.  As  they  reached  the  house 
on  Mullin  Street,  he  turned  upon  him  to  say,  with 
simple  directness,  — 

"It's  you  that  got  me  through  this;  and  if  I  'm  in 
need,  I'm  going  to  come  to  you  again." 

At  the  top  landing  they  separated  with  nothing 
more  than  the  customary  good-night;  but  as  Barry 
turned  away  to  his  room,  his  eyes,  which  had  not 
known  tears  since  childhood,  were  wet. 

205 


XIX 

The  singular  missionary  enterprise  to  which,  at  the 
solicitation  of  Irene  Muller,  Philip  had  reluctantly 
committed  himself,  was  by  no  means  a  task  of  facile 
accomplishment.  It  is  one  thing  to  bear  succour 
to  those  who  fly  signals  of  distress,  quite  another  to 
urge  it  upon  those  who  feel  no  apprehension  of  dan- 
ger and  are  quick  to  resent  any  semblance  of  offi- 
ciousness  or  zeal  in  another.  Queenie  had  no  desire 
to  be  made  an  object  of  philanthropy.  She  was  per- 
fectly competent,  in  her  own  eyes,  to  look  out  for 
herself. 

She  immensely  enjoyed  finding  herself  the  recipient 
of  Philip's  attentions,  so  long  as  she  could  believe 
them  to  be  entirely  the  attentions  of  gallantry.  It 
flattered  her  to  be  seen  in  the  company  of  so  distin- 
guished-looking a  young  man ;  she  clearly  recognized 
the  superiority  of  his  breeding  over  that  of  the  other 
gentlemen  friends  who  offered  themselves  through 
the  medium  of  her  profession;  and  she  liked  to  feel 
that  her  charms  were  potent  in  that  higher  sphere  of 
culture,  good-manners,  and  education  to  which  he 
belonged. 

To  be  sure,  he  did  not  have  much  money  to  spend 
on  her,  not  nearly  so  much  as  the  others.  He  could  not 

206 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


take  her  out  in  his  own  touring-car,  nor  treat  her  to 
lovely  lobster- suppers.  Indeed,  she  suspected  he  must 
be  downright  poor,  despite  what  Irene  told  her  to  the 
contrary.  But  what  if  he  was?  There  were  always 
others  who  stood  ready  to  do  the  swell  thing  by 
her.  She  would  accept  what  she  could  get  of  both 
sorts :  culture  and  looks  on  the  one  hand ;  handsome 
presents,  feeds,  and  the  real  thing  in  the  way  of  good 
times  on  the  other.  The  schedule  was  quite  to  her 
liking. 

And  she  did  honestly  admire  Mr.  JVetherelPs  refine- 
ment. For  one  thing,  she  always  felt  at  ease  with  him. 
He  was  not  continually  asking  her  to  laugh  at  coarse 
witticisms,  nor  seeming  to  urge,  by  each  hint  and  look 
and  gesture,  a  something  which  she  did  not  want  to  be 
bothered  with.  So  long  as  she  could  be  coveted,  and 
petted,  and  talked  about,  without  going,  as  she  put  it, 
the  whole  figure,  she  had  a  distinct  preference  for  vir- 
tue. A  girl  who  kept  straight  had  a  better  chance  of 
marrying  well  some  day ;  and  Queenie  was  not  with- 
out dreams  of  seeing  her  own  name  headlined  in 
the  New  York  "  Journal"  in  connection  with  the  en- 
trancing statement,  "Millionaire  Weds  Chorus-Girl," 
—  or,  better  yet,  an  announcement  that  it  had  been 
''officially  admitted"  at  the  box-office  of  such  and 
such  a  theatre  that  Queenie  Muller,  the  popular  comic- 
opera  star,  had  been  privately  married  to  a  certain 
millionaire  stockbroker  —  always  a  millionaire,  you 

207 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


may  be  sure  —  of  Chicago.  "This  is  considered  by 
all  odds  the  most  sensational  match  of  the  current 
dramatic  season/'  etc.,  etc. 

Oh,  yes,  Queenie  Muller  of  Smilax  Street  had  her 
ambitious  dreams  —  what  chorus-girl  has  not  ?  — 
Yet  it  demanded  no  very  keen  observation  to  ascer- 
tain that  she  was  quite  destitute  of  the  shrewdness, 
persistence,  and  concentration  of  purpose  that  alone 
could  make  such  dreams  effective.  With  a  small 
number  of  reservations,  she  always  did  the  thing  that 
was  easiest.  She  wanted  a  good  time.  She  had  been 
fed  with  pampering  and  flattery  until  her  head  was 
completely  turned.  She  was  quite  the  vainest  little 
creature  Philip  had  ever  encountered,  always  posing 
for  the  glance  of  admiration,  —  fingering  her  golden 
puffs,  readjusting  her  sparklet  earrings,  dabbing  at  her 
eye  with  a  point  of  her  handkerchief  for  an  imaginary 
cinder,  —  an  act  which  drew  attention  to  the  extreme 
length  of  her  lashes,  —  absently  tapping  her  tiny,  even, 
milk-white  teeth  with  one  finger.  Her  little  tricks 
of  this  sort  were  infinite  in  number,  and  practised 
with  incessant  assiduity. 

As  soon  as  she  ceased  to  hold  the  centre  of  the  stage 
in  a  conversation,  her  interest  grew  extremely  languid. 
Her  small  foot  would  play  a  restless  tattoo  on  the  floor; 
she  would  gaze  round  the  room,  making  covert  ex- 
periments in  attracting  the  notice  of  some  other  man ; 
work  up  a  fit  of  coughing  which  would  eventually 

208 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


compel  her  to  retire  from  the  scene,  the  object  of  uni- 
versal notice. 

Philip  found  her,  indeed,  a  most  embarrassing 
companion,  either  in  the  restaurant  or  on  the  street. 
The  modish  absurdity  of  her  costume  made  her 
everywhere  —  even  in  New  York  —  a  mark  for 
comment,  not  always  of  a  very  respectful  character. 
Her  nasal  piping  voice  could  be  heard  from  a  distance ; 
her  laugh  was  loud ;  she  must  always  have  her  gum 
with  her.  Wherever  they  went,  men  would  turn  to 
stare  at  her.  There  could  be  no  question,  in  the  mind 
of  the  onlooker,  as  to  her  profession.  Equally  un- 
questionable, Philip  knew,  was  the  role  imputed  to 
her  escort.  The  knowledge  made  him  wince.  All  his 
natural  fastidiousness  was  in  arms.  It  seemed  to  him, 
as  the  weeks  went  by,  that  he  had  made  a  serious 
mistake  in  committing  himself  to  the  business.  The 
task  was  both  ungrateful  and  ineffectual.  It  could 
bring  no  possible  benefit  either  to  Queenie  or  to 
himself. 

He  confessed  as  much  one  day  to  Irene,  who,  having 
promptly  reentered  the  employ  of  the  hated  Tibbs, 
found  many  occasions  for  talking  things  over  with  her 
friend,  beside  the  mail-box  of  the  New  York  Cor- 
respondence Institute  of  Auto-health. 

"You  mean"  —  she  asked,  anxiously  —  "you 
mean  she  ain't  biting  at  all." 

"It's  no  fault  of  hers,"  answered  Philip,  grimly. 
209 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


''The  trouble  is  that  there's  nothing  to  bite  —  at 
least,  that's  largely  it.  What  can  I  really  do?  What 
am  I  really  there  for  ?  I ' ve  nothing  to  offer  her  that 's 
of  any  particular  influence  or  desirability." 

''Isn't  it  something,  Mr.  Wetherell,  just  to  be  a 
nice,  true  friend  to  her?"  demanded  the  girl,  with  a 
beseeching  face.  "If  you  only  knew  what  some  of  her 
other  friends  are  like!" 

"I  do  know,"  rejoined  Philip.  "And  I  am  sure 
that  I  count  with  her  merely  as  one  of  them." 

"Oh,  that's  not  true,  indeed  it's  not,  Mr.  Weth- 
erell," protested  Irene,  eagerly.  "You  mustn't  let 
yourself  think  that.  She  says  you're  in  a  class  all  by 
yourself.  She  talks  about  you  all  the  time  to  home. 
She  says  you  're  the  most  beautifully  cultured  man 
she  ever  knew.  Really,  Mr.  Wetherell,  you've  no 
idea  how  much  ice  you  cut  with  little  Queenie." 

Her  assurance  failed  to  reassure  him.  An  uncom- 
fortable intimation  sprang  up  in  his  mind.  Queenie 
might  not  be  quite  so  simple  as  she  appeared  to  her 
sister.  Perhaps  she  had  suspected  something.  Per- 
haps she,  too,  had  some  ulterior  object. 

"I  may  be  pessimistic,"  he  said,  kicking  the  carpet 
vindictively  with  his  toe,  "but  I  can't  resist  the  belief 
that  somehow  or  other  it  all  misses  fire." 

Irene  sighed  heavily.  "Queenie  is  silly,"  she  con- 
ceded. "But  oh,  Mr.  Wetherell,  I  honestly  don't 
think  she's  bad." 

2IO 


ENCHANTTED  GROUND 


She  seemed  to  him  at  that  moment  like  a  mother, 
pleading  at  the  bar  of  justice  for  her  own  flesh  and 
blood. 

"I'm  sure  she's  not  that,"  he  agreed,  honestly. 
There  was  a  lump  in  his  throat  which  he  hotly  re- 
sented the  presence  of.  He  wished  that  for  once  he 
could  keep  his  sympathies  free  from  idiotic  entangle- 
ment. 

''She's  just  kind  of  weak,"  went  on  Irene.  "I  don't 
know  how  it  is ;  but  somehow  or  other  nobody  seems 
to  have  learned  her  any  principles.  She  got  sort  of 
spoiled  to  home,  I  guess,  ma  bein'  what  she  is,  and 
all.  Queenie  likes  a  good  time;  and  that's  about  all 
there  is  to  it." 

There  was  a  silence,  while  Irene  looked  hard  at  the 
floor,  summoning  courage  for  her  next  move.  Philip 
could  see  a  flush  of  embarrassment  spreading  over 
her  homely  features.  At  last  she  looked  up,  with  a 
diffident,  apologetic  smile,  into  her  companion's  face. 

"Mr.  Wetherell,  pardon  me  for  bein'  so  bold  as  to 
ask,  but  did  you  ever  try  talkin'  straight  goods  to 
little  Queenie  about  them  things?" 

"No,  I  never  quite  saw  how,"  admitted  Philip.  "I 
don't  think  she  enjoys  being  talked  to  in  that  way." 

Irene  gave  him  a  direct  scrutiny,  in  which  there 
was  more  than  a  hint  of  reproach. 

"It  don't  seem  to  me,  Mr.  Wetherell,  as  if  you 
really  cared  very  much  about  doin'  anything  for  her, 

211 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


if  you  dare  n't  say  a  little  something  now  and  then 
that  she  don't  like  the  sound  of.  I  thought  you  was 
more  in  earnest  than  that." 

The  man  bit  his  lip.  *^I  am  in  earnest,"  he  said. 
"But  I  haven't  felt  sure  that  that  was  the  way  to 
accomplish  anything." 

"But  how  can  you  tell  unless  you'll  try,"  urged 
Irene,  anxiously.  "You  're  so  much  older  'n  her,  an' 
she  respects  you  such  a  lot,  I  can't  help  thinkin'  it 
might  count  —  I  mean,  just  if  you'd  tell  her,  as 
friendly  as  you  could,  what  you  thought  about  those 
things ;  how  you  thought  a  girl  ought  to  act,  don't  you 
know,  and  all  that." 

There  was  another  pause.  Philip  held  a  sullen  si- 
lence. There  were  reasons  enough  in  his  mind  against 
adopting  the  course  Irene  was  pressing  upon  him. 
He  perceived  confusedly  that  it  would  be  evocative 
of  a  profound  and  painful  upheaval  in  another  de- 
partment of  his  life.  He  wanted  to  avoid  that.  He 
resented  her  interference. 

Irene  looked  at  him  with  a  lip  that  quivered.  "I 
know  I  got  no  business  at  all  to  put  the  thing  up  to 
you  like  this;  but  oh,  I've  been  so  terrible  worried, 
Mr.  Wetherell.  One  o'  them  men  is  hangin'  around 
her  all  the  time ;  and  I  can  see  that  he 's  made  sort  of 
an  impression  with  his  helHsh  arguments,  and  —  and, 
oh,  Queenie's  such  an  awful  fool,  and  she  ain't  got 
no  one  but  me  and  you  to  hold  her  right." 

212 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


She  put  out  a  supplicating  hand  to  his  coat-sleeve. 
*'You  ain't  goin'  to  leave  me  all  alone  now,  are 
you?" 

Her  eyes  were  blinking  with  tears.  There  was  no 
possibility  of  denying  her.  Philip  grimly  yielded.  He 
promised  that  he  would  make  another  effort.  He  had 
a  date  with  Queenie  for  the  following  Sunday  after- 
noon. He  would  not  let  the  opportunity  slip  by. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you  a  thousand  times,  Mr. 
Wetherell.  I  'm  sure  we  are  goin'  to  save  our  little 
Queenie." 

She  seized  one  of  his  hands  with  a  quick,  affection- 
ate pressure,  and  darted  into  the  Institute.  Irene  had 
her  sense  of  the  dramatic,  no  doubt  inherited,  and 
she  never  failed  to  make  the  most  of  her  scenes  with 
Philip.  She  was  consumingly  in  earnest;  no  one 
could  doubt  that  for  an  instant.  But  the  fact  did 
not  keep  her  from  appreciating  the  fascinating  pos- 
sibilities of  the  situation  in  which  she  found  herself, 
that  of  seeking  to  save  an  innocent  young  sister  from 
the  machinations  of  villainy,  and  of  having  for  ally 
one  of  the  handsomest,  most  aristocratic-looking  men 
she  had  ever  seen.  The  quick  pressure  of  gratitude 
she  gave  his  hand  was  unmistakably  spontaneous,  a 
gage  of  confidence  which  helped  to  hold  him,  more 
than  any  other  one  thing,  perhaps,  to  the  very  letter 
of  his  promise.  And  if  the  perfervid  "we  are  goin' 
to  save  our  little  Queenie"  had  in  it  an  obvious  sug- 

213 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


gestion  of  footlights,  yet  even  so,  reflected  Philip,  it 
was  not  utterly  out  of  keeping  with  the  rather  melo- 
dramatic nature  of  the  whole  enterprise  to  which  he 
was  committed. 

One  point  was  made  inescapably,  relentlessly  clear 
to  him  by  the  new  promise  that  had  been  wrung  from 
him.  He  could  not  preach  to  Queenie  until  he  had 
first  put  his  own  house  in  order.  The  figure  of  the 
mote  and  the  beam  came  to  him  in  all  its  drastic 
appositeness.  Supposing  that  his  words  —  as  he 
could  scarcely  believe  —  should  have  some  influence 
with  the  wayward  Queenie,  what  would  the  reflex  ef- 
fect of  that  be  upon  himself  but  a  new  self-contempt, 
knowing  that  if  the  facts  of  his  conduct  were  once 
exposed  to  her,  the  words  would  be  worse  than  a 
mockery.  Indeed,  it  would  be  perfectly  just  for  her  to 
accuse  him  of  being  the  falsest  of  all  her  friends  —  in 
that  he  had  set  himself  up  to  be  better  than  the  rest. 

During  the  past  months  he  had,  perhaps,  struck  an 
ignoble  pact  with  his  conscience.  He  had,  perhaps, 
knowingly,  wilfully  accepted  the  maxims  of  sophis- 
try;  he  might  even  have  been  aware,  deep  down  in  his 
heart,  that  there  was  no  possible  reconciliation  be- 
tween his  ideals  and  his  practical  conduct.  Yet  until 
this  moment  nothing  had  compelled  him  to  write  the 
word  hypocrite  against  his  name. 

Henceforth,  if  he  were  to  live  up  to  his  promise,  he 
could  no  longer  evade  that  shameful  necessity:  the 

214 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


intolerable  reproach  of  it  would  be  ever  present  in  his 
mind. 

Before  he  had  reached  the  top  of  the  second  flight 
of  stairs  on  the  way  to  his  room,  he  realized  that  only 
one  course  of  action  was  open  to  him :  he  must  break, 
once  and  for  all,  the  net  that  enmeshed  him.  He 
must  do  it,  and  he  must  do  it  immediately.  He  had 
planned  to  go  to  Katrinka's  Saturday  evening.  He 
would  not  go.  He  would  end  the  affair  now. 

It  was  a  moment  of  high,  unsparing  resolution.  He 
was  rendering  obedience  to  a  voice  sterner  than  any 
he  had  heretofore  hearkened  to ;  and  the  voice  was 
bidding  him  tear  from  his  bosom  a  thing  he  loved 
and  crush  it  under  his  heel.  He  knew  that  if  he 
waited  he  should  not  have  the  strength  to  obey. 

He  lighted  the  gas  in  his  mansarde,  took  out  his 
note-paper,  and  began  to  write.  He  was  surprised  to 
find  himself  so  calm.  His  mind  seemed  to  be  per- 
vaded by  a  dry,  white,  pitiless  light  in  which  no  illu- 
sion, no  mirage,  no  self-deception  could  have  being. 
The  stern  daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God  had  spoken 
peremptorily ;  there  was  no  shadow  of  doubt  within 
him  as  to  the  necessity  of  the  step  he  was  taking.  The 
hopeless,  consuming  longing  and  regret  might  follow : 
it  was  sure  to  follow;  but  that  was  a  problem  for 
the  future.  When  he  had  once  taken  the  irrevoca- 
ble step,  he  could  set  out  to  adjust  himself  to  the 
new  conditions. 

215 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


The  note  he  wrote  was  courteous,  explicit,  and 
honest.  It  told  her  that  whatever  might  be  right  or 
wrong  for  others  in  these  concerns,  he  knew  that  it 
had  been  wrong  from  the  first  for  him  to  do  as  he  had 
done;  and  that  to  break  things  off  at  once  was  the 
only  way  in  which  he  could  be  square  by  himself.  — 
There  it  stood,  at  last,  a  statement  of  the  truth  as  he 
knew  it.  It  was  a  grim  satisfaction  to  see  it  set  down 
in  words  that  he  could  not  honestly  retract  or  go  back 
from. 

There  was  little  more  than  that  in  the  note.  He  did 
not  dare  indulge  himself  in  any  words  of  regret.  He 
knew  that  he  must  not  yield  an  inch  to  sentiment.  In 
the  treacherous  valley  where  he  stood,  one  step  either 
to  the  right  or  to  the  left  of  the  bare,  rock-grounded 
path  he  had  chosen  to  follow,  would  mean  his  ruin. 
Quagmire,  pitfall,  and  gin  were  on  every  hand. 
Harsh,  unlovely  Truth  must  be  his  guide  before,  while 
Duty  remorselessly  laid  the  whip  to  his  shoulders. 

He  sealed  the  missive  dully,  and  addressed  it. 
Then  he  broke  the  envelope,  and  read  the  letter 
through  again,  —  read  it  twice.  Slowly,  and  with 
fingers  that  shook  a  Httle,  he  slipped  it  into  a  second 
envelope,  and  rewrote  the  address. 

He  stared  at  it  lying  there  on  his  desk,  and  thought 
of  all  it  meant  in  the  baring  and  narrowing  and  rough- 
ening of  his  Hfe  thenceforth.  Every  hour  passed  with 
Katrinka  was,  in  its  way,  an  hour  of  beauty.  Every 

216 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


word  from  her  lips,  every  movement  of  her  body,  v^as 
music.  And  now  these  hours  of  music  and  beauty, 
this  devotion  of  sense  and  imagination  that  appealed 
so  potently  to  the  artist  in  him,  —  that  child  of  love 
and  sunshine  so  often  cruelly  at  variance  with  the 
other  ruler  of  his  soul,  the  stern  hill-dweller,  —  it  was 
all  to  be  destroyed,  cast  away,  and  for  the  sake  of  a 
silly,  rattle-brained  little  flirt,  who  was  destined  to 
go  her  own  way  just  as  heedlessly  for  all  that  he 
might  sacrifice. 

"No,  not  for  this,"  answered  the  voice  from  the 
hills.  "It  is  the  inevitable  struggle  of  that  ideal  which 
you  have,  for  a  time,  dethroned,  to  regain  once  more 
its  ascendancy  over  the  soul.  If  the  struggle  is  lost, 
you  will  be  forever  in  your  own  eyes  a  creature  of 
weakness  and  contempt." 

Philip  sprang  to  his  feet,  caught  up  the  envelope, 
sped  down  the  stairs,  and  sought  the  nearest  mail- 
box. He  opened  the  slot  and,  as  it  shut,  heard  the 
soft,  dull  fall  of  his  letter  amongst  the  other  letters 
that  were  waiting  there,  with  their  messages  of  glad- 
ness and  tragedy,  of  despair  and  hope,  until  the  time 
should  come  for  them  to  go  forth  upon  their  myriad 
ways. 

It  seemed  to  him,  suddenly,  as  he  stood  there  on 
the  cold  street  under  the  flickering  arc-light,  that  he 
had  slain  a  lovely  and  precious  thing.  A  great  misery 
and  loneliness  settled  upon  him.  There  was  no  one 

217 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


in  the  world  who  cared  for  him  as  she  cared.  If  he 
had  made  a  triumph  in  the  cause  of  Morality,  it  was 
the  barrenest,  dreariest  triumph  that  had  ever  been 
made  in  that  stern  cause. 


XX 

It  was  late  winter  in  the  country  of  hills.  A  waste 
of  pale,  waterish  snow,  only  half  concealing  the  dead 
earth,  was  flung  abroad  like  a  tattered  and  discarded 
mantle  under  a  grey  sky.  Each  gleaming  tree-trunk 
stood  in  the  centre  of  a  little  snow-bared  circle; 
each  skeleton  stalk  of  wild  carrot  or  goldenrod  rose 
through  a  tiny,  cup-like  aperture  of  its  own.  In  the 
hollows  of  the  lawn  grey  streaks  showed  where  the 
water  had  drained  out  of  snow  that  lay  higher  and 
whiter. 

Everywhere  was  the  soft,  dull  sound  of  dripping 
moisture,  —  from  the  wet  branches  to  the  wet  sod ; 
from  the  high,  flat  roof  of  the  house  to  the  tin  roof  of 
the  porch ;  from  the  roof  of  the  porch  to  the  steps  and 
flagstones  below.  Now  and  again,  while  Georgia  had 
been  reading  to  her  father  in  the  library,  a  splash  of 
dampness  would  come  down  the  chimney  and  fall 
with  a  hiss  and  a  jet  of  steam  into  the  smouldering 
wood  fire. 

She  sat  by  the  window,  for  the  wan  afternoon  light 
—  though  it  was  not  yet  four  o'clock  —  soon  lost  itself 
in  the  dusky  spaciousness  of  the  apartment.  The 
reading  was  over  now.  Beside  her  lay  a  closed  volume 
of  War  memoirs.    She  had  reached  the  end  of  the 

219 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


chapter ;  and  the  book  would  not  be  taken  up  again 
until  after  supper.  In  its  place  she  was  indifferently 
busying  herself  with  a  piece  of  embroidery  intended 
for  an  old  school  friend  who  was  soon  to  be  married. 

The  room  was  very  quiet.  The  Colonel's  chair  had 
been  let  back  into  a  recHning  position,  and  he  lay 
very  still,  while  an  expression,  which  had  lately  be- 
come customary  with  him,  of  melancholy  and  weak- 
ness, slowly  dominated  his  countenance.  During  the 
winter  his  condition  had  changed  but  little.  The 
valvular  trouble  was  slightly  more  pronounced. 
Debility  was  gaining  on  him.  The  processes  of  dis- 
solution were  at  work,  but  imperceptibly  to  any  but  a 
watchful  eye.  It  was  a  gentle,  unpainful  relaxation 
of  life.  The  tender  solicitude  of  his  daughter,  who 
was  always  beside  him,  making  him  her  first  thought 
in  every  concern  of  the  day,  should,  it  would  seem, 
still  more  have  eased  the  slow  steps  that  led  him 
down  toward  the  dark  river. 

Yet  Colonel  Raeburn  seemed  not  to  know  that 
happy  fortitude  which  is  characteristic  of  his  race  and 
of  his  religion  in  the  presence  of  death.  He  was  not 
rebellious ;  but  he  was  not  content.  Georgia  was  con- 
stantly aware  of  it.  Something  more  than  his  body, 
it  seemed  to  her,  was  in  the  clutch  of  disease.  He  was 
the  prey  of  strange  fits  of  despondency.  A  gloom, 
rarely  hfted,  had  settled  upon  him,  a  cloud  of  dark 
thoughts  which,  except  for  the  brief  hours  when  she 

220 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


managed  to  distract  him  with  reading  or  chat  or  ar- 
gument, did  not  release  him  from  its  heart  of  despair. 

What  the  subject  of  these  meditations  might  be, 
Georgia  could  not  conjecture.  Since  the  terrors  of 
that  November  night,  when  her  father^s  soul  had 
bared  itself  for  a  lurid  second  to  her  gaze,  no  revealing 
words  had  passed  his  lips.  Whatever  his  grief  might 
be,  it  was  deeply  and  resolutely  locked  in  his  breast. 

Georgia  entertained,  indeed,  a  proud,  sensitive 
reluctance  to  pry  curiously  into  her  father's  secrecy. 
She  reverenced  him  too  deeply  for  that.  She  believed 
in  him  too  implicitly.  If  he  wished  to  make  her  a 
party  to  his  confidence,  he  knew  that  she  was  ready 
to  take  upon  her  shoulders  whatever  burden  he  could 
entrust  to  her.  If  he  told  her  nothing,  it  was  because 
he  knew  the  burden  to  be  for  him  alone. 

She  too  had  her  unshared,  unshareable  burden; 
and  her  strength  often  flagged  under  it.  Just  now  it 
seemed  to  her  that  it  was  too  heavy  to  be  borne.  Ah, 
why,  why,  she  asked  herself,  bitterly,  as  she  raised  her 
eyes  from  her  work  and  gazed  vaguely  out  of  the 
window  across  the  melancholy  waste  of  snow,  under 
the  dripping  evergreens  and  locusts  —  why  must  her 
chiefest  support  and  stay  have  failed  her  just  at  the 
moment  when  most  she  needed  it. 

How  she  had  come  to  love  him!  How  she  loved 
him  still,  how  she  longed  for  him,  at  the  moments 
when  forgetfulness  sealed  the  poisonous,  love-slaying 

221 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


realities  from  her  thought !  Ah,  but  the  sealing  was 
never  for  long,  except  in  dreams,  and  the  waking  al- 
ways followed ;  the  return  of  the  bitterness  and  shame. 
While  she  had  known  the  anguish  of  the  olive-garden, 
he  had  slumbered  and  slept,  nay,  he  had  drunk  freely 
the  cup  of  pleasure,  unable  to  hold  the  watch  one 
hour.  How  often  she  had  reexperienced  that  first 
shuddering  recoil  that  had  seized  her  on  the  blighted 
summit  of  Yelping  Hill.  It  was  as  if  something  at 
the  very  fountain-head  of  life  in  her  had  been 
stricken  with  pestilence,  and  could  never  be  healed. 

Out  across  the  waste  of  pallid  snow  wandered  forth 
her  solitary  spirit,  beyond  the  veiled,  mist-banked 
horizon,  upon  a  mournful  journey  of  doubt,  conjec- 
ture and  bitter  regret,  where  no  other  soul  could 
give  her  companionship.  This  was  loneliness !  Lone- 
liness had  been  her  only  companion  for  all  these 
months,  yet  accepted  proudly,  without  a  quiver  of 
the  lip,  because  of  the  blood  that  was  in  her. 

Suddenly  there  fell  upon  her  ears  the  sound  of  a 
splashing  trot  in  the  driveway,  and  peering  out  toward 
the  gate,  she  perceived  a  chunky,  furry-legged  pony 
and  an  old-fashioned  low-bodied  chaise  drawing  near. 
Every  one  in  the  vicinity  of  Folkbridge  knew  that 
chunky  pony  and  the  ancestral  chaise.  What  could 
Miss  Wetherell  be  wanting  out  here?  She  rarely 
drove  so  far  from  the  village  in  winter,  when  the  roads 
were   bad.    The  vehicle,   Georgia  could   see,   was 

222 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


splashed  to  the  top  of  the  calash ;  Peter  looked  as  if 
he  had  been  wading. 

Could  it  be  news?  Had  something  happened  to 
him?  Or  had  she  come,  perhaps,  with  some  kindly 
plan  to  propose  for  a  reconciliation  ?  The  girl's  back 
stiffened  involuntarily,  as  a  host  of  vague  possibili- 
ties, all  of  them  related  in  one  way  or  another  to  the 
subject  of  her  interrupted  reverie,  flashed  across  her 
mind.  Except  for  the  exchange  of  a  casual  word 
sometimes  at  church,  she  had  not  had  any  speech 
with  Miss  Wetherell  all  winter. 

The  Colonel  had  noticed  her  movement  of  atten- 
tion, as  she  bent  toward  the  window. 

"Is  some  one  coming?'' 

"Miss  Wetherell,  father." 

"What!  Prudence  Wetherell?  A  very  strange  day 
ior  her  to  be  driving  out  here,  I  should  say." 

"The  roads  must  be  in  terrible  condition,"  said 
Georgia,  dully. 

The  Colonel  turned  a  glance  of  keen  inquiry  upon 
his  daughter's  face. 

"I  wonder  what  can  be  her  object,"  he  said. 

His  glance  told  him  nothing.  Georgia's  face  evinced 
no  disquietude.  Dread  may  have  tightened  at  her 
throat ;  but  there  was  no  external  sign  of  it.  Since  the 
day  when  Georgia  had  told  him,  with  perfect  sim- 
plicity and  composure,  that  she  and  Philip  Wetherell 
were  no  longer  friends,  his  name  had  not  been  men- 

223 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


tioned  between  them.  That  she  was  not  happy  he 
had  guessed,  because  the  cheerfulness  of  her  words 
and  manner  seemed  too  calculated,  prompted  by  a 
resolution  to  be  cheerful,  rather  than  by  the  inward 
spirit  of  joy  that  had  once  irradiated  all  that  she  did. 
To  him,  too,  at  this  moment,  came  the  thought  that 
Miss  Wetherell's  visit  might  concern  her  nephew. 

"I'm  sure  I  can't  imagine,"  said  Georgia,  with  a 
nervous  little  laugh.  "It  seems  an  odd  day  to  choose 
for  a  call." 

The  chaise  drew  up  at  the  porch ;  but  the  occupant 
did  not  descend.  Summoning  all  her  self-control,  the 
girl  went  to  the  door. 

"Why,  how  do  you  do,  Georgia,"  said  Aunt  Pru- 
dence, from  the  depths  of  a  queer  great-coat  that 
muffled  her  to  the  ears.  "I  thought  I  would  n't  climb 
out  until  I  had  put  Peter  in  the  barn,  if  it  was  agree- 
able to  you." 

"Certainly,  Miss  Wetherell.  How  nice  it  is  to  see 
you  out  here !  Wait  till  I  slip  on  some  rubbers,  and 
I'll  go  with  you." 

Her  manner  was  the  perfection  of  affability,  while 
in  her  mind  the  disconcerting  question  repeated  itself 
again  and  again :  "What  can  she  want  ?  —  What  can 
she  want?" 

"By  no  means,  my  dear,"  protested  the  visitor, 
smiHng.  "Do  you  think  I  require  your  assistance  in 
tying  my  restive,  mettlesome   Peter?    No,  into  the 

224 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


house  with  you  at  once;  you'll  be  taking  cold.  In 
twenty  seconds  I  shall  be  along." 

Her  news  could  not  be  bad  news,  Georgia  told  her- 
self, with  quick  relief ;  else  she  could  not  have  spoken 
so  gayly. 

"You'll  see  her,  father?"  she  asked,  reentering 
the  Hbrary.   "I  take  it  it's  a  family  call." 

There  was  a  suppressed  urgency  in  her  voice  that 
did  not  escape  him. 

"Surely  I  will,"  he  answered.  "It's  ten  months  at 
least  since  I've  set  eyes  on  Prudence  Wetherell." 

The  back  of  the  reclining  chair  was  slightly  raised, 
another  cushion  slipped  under  his  shoulders,  and  the 
afghan  over  his  knees  adjusted.  By  the  time  Aunt 
Prue  reappeared  at  the  door,  he  was  ready  to  see 
her. 

"You're  going  to  come  right  into  the  library,"  said 
Georgia,  with  a  charming  smile.  "Father  is  sitting  up 
to-day,  and  it  will  do  him  good  to  have  a  little  visit 
with  you." 

Aunt  Prue  had  doffed  her  great-coat  and  her  heavy 
driving  gloves  in  the  barn,  and  her  costume  now 
revealed  the  prim  daintiness  that  was  so  peculiarly 
appropriate  and  becoming  to  her.  They  entered  the 
library,  and  for  a  few  minutes  the  conversation,  start- 
ing with  the  unseasonable  weather,  the  shocking  con- 
dition of  the  roads,  and  the  state  of  Colonel  Raebum's 
health,  followed  consecrated  hues.   At  last,  after  a 

225 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


momentary  lull,  the  visitor  broached  the  special 
occasion  of  her  visit. 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you,  Georgia,  if  you  v^ould  take 
charge  of  a  Httle  booth  at  the  bazaar  we  are  organizing 
for  the  Seamen's  Gospel." 

The  girl  replied  with  an  eager  alacrity  that  sur- 
prised no  one  so  much  as  herself :  — 

''Oh,  a  bazaar!  How  perfectly  lovely!  When  is  it 
going  to  be?" 

She  felt  her  pulses  leaping,  as  if  at  the  reception  of 
joyful  tidings. 

Aunt  Prue  was  immensely  gratified  by  the  unex- 
pected reception  of  her  proposal;  and  she  beamed 
happily  at  the  girl. 

"You  love  the  dear  sailors,  too,  don't  you?"  she 
asked.  '^I  was  thinking  about  them  all  the  way  out 
this  afternoon,  wondering  what  such  weather  as 
this  must  be  on  the  ocean.  What  a  brave,  hard  life 
they  lead,  out  there,  so  far  from  the  comforts  of  home ! 
And  I  could  but  picture  the  satisfaction  some  of  them 
would  find  —  at  least  I  hope  so  —  in  the  comfort- 
bags  I  thought  we  could  make  up  out  of  the  proceeds 
of  the  bazaar.  In  War  days,  Colonel  Raeburn,  did 
you  not  find  the  comfort-bags  that  our  Union  women 
provided  truly  a  comfort?" 

The  Colonel  gave  an  emphatic  affirmative  to  her 
question,  and  was  led  to  recount  a  couple  of  reminis- 
cences of  the  quaint  letters  that  often  accompanied 

226 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


the  patriotic  gifts.  Georgia  was  delighted  to  hear  him 
talking  so  much  Hke  his  old  self,  though  it  bespoke 
more  clearly  than  anything  else  could  the  heavy 
change  that  had  come  over  him  during  the  past 
months. 

'^And  I  have  been  thinking,"  resumed  Aunt  Pna- 
dence,  ^^of  the  articles  that  we  could  most  profitably 
include,  —  warm  socks,  of  course ;  a  snug  sweater  in 
one  of  the  brighter  colours  that  sailors  are  so  fond  of, 
green,  or  red,  perhaps;  a  New  Testament,  inexpen- 
sive, but  with  large,  clear  type,  for  the  light  in  the 
fo'c'sle"  —  Aunt  Prue  did  not  fail  to  do  homage  to 
the  term  —  "is  certain  to  be  poor  and  smoky,  at  least 
on  the  sailing  vessels;  a  neat  little  sewing  kit,  with 
coarse  needles  such  as  a  man  likes;  a  tiny  mirror,  a 
nice  comb  and  brush,  writing  materials  for  the  home 
letters,  —  let  me  see,  what  else  ?  —  oh,  I  thought,  in 
case  our  money  held  out,  a  compact  little  medicine- 
case  —  just  the  very  simplest  remedies,  you  know,  in 
some  condensed  form  like  pellets ;  though  I  'm  sure  I 
don't  know  whether  the  dear  lads  could  be  persuaded 
to  use  them.  Sailors  are  very  fatalistic,  according  to 
the  reports,  in  such  matters ;  and  the  most  they  will 
do,  only  too  often,  is  to  take  a  swig  from  the  gin 
bottle." 

She  sighed  heavily,  and  asked  for  the  ColonePs 
opinion  in  the  matter  of  the  medicine-cases. 

"Of  course,"  she  concluded,  "everything  is  still 
227 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


very  vague  and  uncertain.  Much  will  depend  upon 
the  success  of  the  bazaar.  Georgia,  I  wondered 
whether  you  would  be  willing  to  take  charge  of  the 
candies,  —  or  would  you  rather  have  the  souvenirs  ? 
I  thought  we  might  have  one  booth  devoted  to  little 
curios,  such  as  pretty  shells  and  such  things  from  the 
sea ;  some  of  them  made  over,  perhaps,  into  little  fancy 
articles,  like  pincushions,  others  decorated  with  oil 
paints.  I  have  an  idea  such  a  feature  would  prove 
very  attractive.  You  would,  of  course,  be  dressed  in 
some  appropriate  sailor  costume.  I  have  an  old  neck- 
lace of  shark's  teeth  you  could  wear,  if  you  fancied  it. 
It  is  a  real  curiosity." 

For  the  next  quarter-hour  the  conversation  con- 
fined itself  to  plans  for  the  bazaar,  which  Aunt  Prue 
thought  might  be  held  in  the  early  spring,  just  after 
Easter. 

*'It  seemed  to  me  important,"  she  said,  "that  we 
should  be  getting  preparations  under  way,  so  as  to 
make  as  sure  as  possible  of  success.  It  is  a  great  en- 
couragement to  me  to  find  at  least  one  enthusiastic 
helper." 

There  was  an  odd  little  pause,  while  she  still  de- 
layed her  departure.  Aunt  Prudence  cleared  her 
voice,  and  seemed  on  the  point  of  saying  something 
else ;  then  altered  her  mind,  and  was  silent,  occupying 
herself  absorbedly  in  drawing  on  her  black  silk  gloves 
a  little  more  snugly. 

228 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Georgia  got  up  abruptly  to  mend  the  fire,  and  pro- 
longed the  task  until  pride  sent  her  back  once  more  to 
her  seat.  She  made  some  painfully  obvious  remark  on 
the  condition  of  the  roads,  that  mortified  her,  and 
that  made  the  little  eddy  of  talk  it  aroused  seem  only 
an  impertinence  in  the  silence  which  promptly  settled 
down  again.  Georgia  felt  her  fingers  tingling  ner- 
vously under  the  protracted  strain  of  it. 

^^Well,"  said  the  little  woman  at  last,  with  a  faint 
smile,  "I  think  I  had  better  be  running  along.  The 
afternoon  is  far  on  the  wane." 

She  bade  the  Colonel  good-day  in  her  quaint, 
charming  fashion,  and  Georgia  quitted  the  room  with 
her,  forcing  herself,  despite  Miss  Wetherell's  protest 
that  it  was  not  in  the  least  necessary,  to  accompany 
her  as  far  as  the  barn. 

They  picked  their  way  across  the  area,  where  the 
slush  lay  deep,  and  entered  the  carriage-shed.  A  few 
meaningless  words  passed  between  them.  That  was 
all.  The  subject  that  had  not  been  mentioned  lay  like 
a  load  of  lead  on  the  girl's  heart.  The  triviality  of 
every  other  subject  made  her  ashamed,  almost,  to  be 
talking  at  all. 

Aunt  Prue  muffled  herself  in  her  grotesque  driving 
costume,  untied  the  chunky  pony,  and  backed  him 
out  into  the  drive,  with  many  sturdy  cries  of  "Back, 
Peter,  back,  I  say!"  and  many  caressing  pats  upon 
the  neck.  It  took  her  a  very  long  time.  Georgia  stood 

229 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


by,  watching.  She  longed  to  have  Miss  Wetherell 
depart;  and  yet  she  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
being  left  alone,  —  left  alone  without  a  word.  She 
had  been  stricken  with  dread  lest  Aunt  Prue  should 
speak  of  the  subject  that  most  intimately  concerned 
them  both.  Now  she  dreaded  even  more  painfully 
to  see  her  leaving  Highstone  without  even  a  hint  or  a 
question  —  as  if  he  had  never  existed. 

"Well,  good-by,  Georgia,"  said  Aunt  Prue,  taking 
the  girl's  hand.  For  an  instant  she  held  it,  and  with  a 
pressure  that  was  unmistakable,  while  her  grey  eyes 
were  lifted  to  her  companion's  face  with  a  look  of 
timid  appeal. 

Georgia  felt  herself  choking.  She  could  not  face 
those  eyes.  She  could  not  respond  to  the  pressure  of 
the  hand.  She  had  nothing  to  say.  With  a  new  pang 
she  realized  that  her  secret  was  not  to  be  shared. 

"Good-by,  Miss  Wetherell,"  she  said.  "I  am  sure 
we  are  going  to  make  a  real  success  of  it.  It  will  be 
great  fun." 

The  little  woman  in  the  enormous  great-coat 
dropped  her  hand,  and  put  one  foot  on  the  step  of 
the  chaise.  Then  with  a  quick  revision  of  her  thought, 
she  turned  once  more  to  the  girl. 

"You  never  hear  from  him,  now?" 

The  words  had  a  frightened  sound.  Georgia  shook 
her  head,  with  lips  tight  pressed  to  keep  back  the  sob 
that  swelled  in  her  throat. 

230 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Two  tears  suddenly  appeared  in  Aunt  Prue's  grey 
eyes.  She  turned  quickly  and  climbed  into  the  chaise. 
She  backed  Peter  a  little  farther,  then  headed  toward 
the  gate.  Still  Georgia  looked  on  in  silence. 

Aunt  Prue  started  up  the  pony,  but  pulled  him 
abruptly  to  a  halt  as  she  came  up  by  the  girl.  She 
leaned  from  the  low  seat  as  far  as  she  could  toward 
her  ear,  and  whispered,  — 

''Georgia,  dear,  whatever  it  may  be  that  has  hap- 
pened, I  —  I  "  —  but  the  girl  could  not  hear  the  low 
words  that  followed. 

Miss  Wetherell  gathered  the  reins  quickly,  and 
flapped  them  upon  the  back  of  the  chunky  pony. 

"Get  up,  Peter!"  she  cried. 


XXI 

Sunday  afternoon,  when  Philip  called  in  at  the 
Smilax  Street  tenement  to  take  Queenie  for  her  '^mis- 
sionary outing,"  —  as  he  sardonically  termed  it  to 
himself,  —  she  was  still  at  her  toilet.  Irene,  who 
came  to  the  door,  garbed  in  a  kitchen  apron,  would 
not  permit  him  to  give  her  a  hand  with  the  dinner 
dishes. 

"Well,  I  guess  not,"  she  declared.  "You  just  run 
into  the  front  room  and  have  a  nice  little  chat  with  ma. 
I'll  be  along  in  a  jiffy." 

Reluctantly  he  obeyed  her.  At  his  entrance  the  in- 
valid put  by  her  novel  with  a  smile  of  welcome,  and 
murmured  a  request  that  he  draw  up  the  ottoman 
beside  the  sofa. 

"It  will  make  you  seem  not  so  far  away,  somehow," 
she  explained. 

Philip  seated  himself,  and  made  the  conventional 
inquiry  as  to  her  state  of  health. 

A  heavy  sigh  preluded  her  response.  "Only  an- 
other of  my  foolish  little  turns,"  she  elucidated 
bravely.   "I  dare  say  it  means  nothing." 

The  look  she  gave  him,  and  the  almost  impercepti- 
ble shake  of  the  head,  indicated  that  the  truth  might 
be  far  otherwise;  and  she  proceeded  to  recount  to 

232 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


him,  with  considerable  detail,  the  strange,  baffling, 
unprecedented  symptoms  of  this  latest  attack.  Her 
voice  dropped  to  an  intimate  whisper. 

"I  would  not  care  for  myself,"  she  confided.  "But, 
my  brave  little  girls !  —  they  have  so  much  to  bear  as 
it  is!" 

Several  painful  seconds  passed  before  she  could 
speak  again.  Philip  hoped  against  hope  that  the  af- 
fecting part  of  the  interview  was  over ;  but  when  the 
invalid  invited  him,  by  a  fond,  maternal  gesture,  to 
give  her  his  hand,  he  knew  that  worse  was  yet  to 
come. 

"You  will  not  mind  an  old  woman's  whim,"  she 
begged.  "I  feel,  somehow,  as  if  something  were 
bringing  us  very  close  together." 

She  turned  a  look  of  meaningful  intentness  upon 
him,  which  for  an  instant  he  was  quite  at  a  loss  to 
interpret.  Surely  she  could  not  imagine  —  oh,  the 
idea  was  preposterous!  He  waited  stupidly  for  her 
to  go  on.   She  gave  his  hand  a  gentle  pressure. 

"I  thought  at  first,"  she  murmured,  "that  it 
was  the  oldest  of  my  little  blossoms ;  but  now  I  see 
that  it  is  the  youngest:  my  Httle  Queenie.  Am  I 
right?" 

Philip  stared  at  her  in  dismay.  "Indeed,  Mrs. 
Muller,  you  are  in  error,"  he  exclaimed.  "We  are 
good  friends,  —  nothing  more,  I  give  you  my  word." 

She  released  his  hand  suddenly,  and  pressed  her 
^33 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


fingers  lightly  to  her  heart  to  stay  its  wild  fluttering. 
"Oh,  I  have  been  indiscreet!"  she  gasped.  "What 
have  I  said!'' 

"Pray  don't  let  it  disturb  you  in  the  least,"  inter- 
jected Philip,  soothingly.  "It's  a  matter  of  small 
moment." 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "you  know  how  to  make  allow- 
ances for  the  mother  heart.  Its  only  crime  is  that  of 
being  perhaps  too  fond." 

Philip  was  uncomfortably  conscious  that  his  face 
had  flushed  hotly,  and  he  could  but  suspect  that  his 
hostess  would  interpret  the  fact  after  her  own  fashion. 
But  her  next  remark  indicated  that  she  could  adapt 
herself  with  perfect  grace  and  ease  to  the  diplomatic 
demands  of  any  situation. 

"At  all  events,"  she  said,  "I  may  tell  you  how 
sincerely  glad  I  am  that  you  two  are  good  comrades. 
Queenie  is  my  special  pride,  my  little  sunbeam.  It 
delights  me  that  she  has  found  a  friend  who  is  in 
every  way  so  worthy  of  her!" 

She  smiled  at  him  mistily  over  a  bosom  that  lifted 
and  fell,  and  concluded  the  dialogue  in  the  approved 
fashion :  — 

"But  hush!  I  think  I  hear  her  coming." 

The  little  sunbeam  entered;  and  an  instant  later 
followed  the  Httle  staff,  to  give  assistance  with  the 
veil.  Queenie  had  never  succeeded  in  making  such  a 
marvellous  creation  of  herself  as  to-day.   Philip  had 

234 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


been  till  now  unaware  that  the  feminine  toilet  com- 
prised so  many  possibilities  of  modish  horror.  The 
thought  that  they  were  to  take  tea  together  at  the 
Casino  struck  him  with  dismay.  But  his  dismay  was 
unshared  by  any  other  of  the  company. 

*'Oh,  you  look  just  too  lovely  for  anything,  dearie," 
was  Irene's  comment.  ^^  Don't  she,  Mr.  Weth- 
erell?"  —  And  she  sent  a  look  of  sisterly  pride  over 
Queenie's  shoulder  at  her  friend. 

The  invalid  was  favoured  with  a  demonstrative 
embrace  of  farewell;  likewise  Irene;  and  then  they 
were  off. 

Queenie  was  in  the  most  radiant  spirits.  She  had 
never  been  so  loudly  herself  as  that  fateful  afternoon. 
When  they  hailed  the  Fifth  Avenue  'bus  at  Eighth 
Street,  she  protested  that  she  never,  never  in  the 
world,  could  climb  those  dreadful  stairs.  Philip  sug- 
gested that  they  go  inside;  but  no,  she  must  have  a 
seat  on  top  if  she  croaked  for  it ;  and  with  many  little 
shrieks  of  mingled  fright  and  mirth,  she  was  helped 
up.  At  once  she  fell  Hmply  into  a  seat,  panting  for 
breath,  fanning  herself  with  her  muff,  and  declaring 
between  gasps,  that  she  certainly  had  tumbled  to  that 
for  fair. 

Since  Philip  had  last  seen  her,  he  had  attended  the 
**Pink  Butterfly,"  and  she  was  full  of  eagerness  to 
know  if  he  did  n't  really  think  it  was  the  swellest  show 
yet. 

235 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


^^And  say,"  she  pursued,  shifting  her  gum  to  the 
other  side,  'Mid  you  notice  that  kid  next  to  me  in  the 
Ponies  —  the  one  at  the  end?  That's  Gertie  Beau- 
champ.  Gertie's  the  real  article,  all  right,  all  right. 
Pretty  off  as  she  is  on,  too.  Oh,  she  and  I  are  the 
greatest  chums :  we're  perfectly  inseparable !  There's 
an  old  mutt  that's  perfectly  crazy  mad  about  her.  He 
always  sets  there  in  the  front  row,  way  over  to  the 
left,  and  cheese!  don't  he  blow  in  the  bright  yellow 
coin  on  Gertie !  Every  night  there 's  a  box  of  American 
Beauties  on  Gertie's  table  in  the  dressin'  room,  and  all 
the  suppers  she  wants  to  Rector's.  Say,  Gertie  Beau- 
champ  certainly  struck  it  rich." 

As  Queenie's  conversation  was  by  no  means  pitched 
in  a  subdued  key,  Philip  felt  an  intense  relief  when 
they  quitted  the  'bus  at  Seventy-second  Street,  — 
again  with  many  little  shrieks,  —  and  made  their  way 
afoot  into  the  Park. 

The  keen,  dramatic  beauty  of  the  wintry  afternoon 
colouring,  the  Moorish  fretwork  of  leafless  branches 
against  a  west  of  gold  and  turquoise,  —  how  Katrinka 
would  have  loved  it !  —  was  quite  lost  on  his  com- 
panion ;  but  she  was  not  without  occupation,  for  she 
had  an  abundance  of  criticism  to  offer  upon  the  cos- 
tume of  every  woman  they  encountered. 

**Say,  did  you  ever  in  your  life  see  such  a  laugh 
of  a  hat?"  she  would  demand,  with  a  superior  toss 
of  the  head.   ''That  woman  must  like  to  make  a 

236 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


spectacle  of  herself.  It's  utterly  impossible  to  wear 
those  new  willow  plumes,  you  know,  with  that  sort 
of  a  figure." 

Philip  registered  a  grim  vow  that  he  would  broach 
the  subject  of  the  day  to  his  companion  as  soon  as 
they  were  well  settled  at  tea.  Till  then  he  would 
submit  unprotestingly  to  anything. 

They  followed  a  curving  avenue  up  a  gentle  slope 
of  brown  lawn  and  red-stemmed  shrubbery,  until 
they  attained  the  little  eminence  where  the  famous 
luncheon-house  is  situated.  Seats  were  secured  in  a 
comer  of  the  Palm  Room,  and  English  breakfast, 
toasted  muffins,  and  Bar-le-Duc  ordered. 

Philip  lighted  a  cigarette,  leaned  forward  intimately 
on  the  table,  and  began.  It  was  the  only  way.  With 
Queenie  there  could  be  no  such  thing  as  diplomatic 
preparation. 

"What  do  you  honestly  think,"  he  demanded,  "of 
this  Gertie  Beauchamp?  Is  she  a  good  sort?" 

Queenie  opened  astonished  eyes  upon  him. 

"Why,  Mr.  Wetherell,"  she  returned.  "Whatever 
do  you  mean  by  such  a  question  as  that?" 

"  Just  what  I  say,"  he  rejoined.  "Is  she  a  girl  with 
good  principles  —  the  kind  of  girl  you  want  for  a 
friend?" 

Queenie  pouted,  and  her  eyes  grew  rebellious. 

"Well,  I  'm  sure ! "  she  said.  "That 's  a  very  strange 
question  indeed!" 

237. 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


'^It  may  be  strange,"  agreed  Philip.  ^^But  I'm 
in  earnest  about  it.  I  want  to  know  what  you 
think." 

Queenie  gave  him  a  stony  look.  ^'I  can't  see  any- 
thing the  matter  with  Gertie/*  she  retorted.  ^'She 
may  not  be  a  saint." 

Philip  cast  about  desperately  for  a  cue.  "Would 
you  Hke  to  have  your  mother  know  her?"  he  asked. 

It  was  an  unfortunate  venture. 

"Mother?  Why,  ma  knows  her.  Ma  thinks  she's 
the  real  thing.  Say,  Mr.  Wetherell,  I  wish  you  'd  tell 
me  what  you're  drivin'  at.  I  don't  understand  you 
at  all." 

Queenie  drew  herself  back  with  a  hint  of  offended 
dignity. 

Her  companion  was  not  to  be  so  easily  daunted. 
"Does  your  mother  know  about  her  friend  —  the  one 
who  sits  in  the  front  row?" 

The  girl's  face  grew  very  red.  She  turned  at  bay 
with  the  hot  admonition,  — 

"Mr.  Wetherell,  I  beg  you  to  remember  that  Gertie 
Beauchamp  is  my  particular  friend.  Be  careful  what 
you  say." 

The  man  hated  to  take  advantage  of  the  opening 
she  gave  him ;  but  it  was  his  cue  to  speak.  "And  you 
have  for  your  particular  friend,"  he  broke  out,  vehe- 
mently, "a  girl  who  lives  that  kind  of  a  life!  Does 
that  help  you  to  keep  good?" 

^38. 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Queenie  bit  her  lip  with  anger.  "You  have  no  right 
to  talk  like  that  to  me,"  she  declared. 

"I  have  the  right/'  rejoined  Philip.  "My  friend- 
ship for  you  gives  me  that  right.  I  hate  to  see  you 
running  into  danger.'' 

"Danger!"  echoed  the  girl,  derisively.  "Do  you 
mean  you  think  I'm  such  a  fool  that  I  can't  keep 
straight  myself,  just  because  a  friend  of  mine  does  the 
other  thing?" 

"I  mean,"  cried  Philip,  with  impassioned  earnest- 
ness, "that  none  of  us  is  so  strong  that  he  can  afford 
to  play  with  fire.  We're  all  weak  somewhere.  In  this 
particular  matter  I'm  weaker  than  you  are,  because 
I've  gone  wrong  already.  I  hope  I  shan't  again;  I 
don't  mean  to.  And  so  far  as  the  world's  way  of  look- 
ing at  it  goes,  it's  a  lot  worse  if  a  girl  once  makes  a 
mistake,  because  she's  never  going  to  be  given  an- 
other fair  chance.  The  world  never  forgives  her,  no 
matter  how  much  she  may  want  to  be  good  again." 

Philip  heard  his  own  voice  ringing  honestly;  and 
no  reflections  of  shame  were  evoked  in  his  mind  by  the 
words  he  had  uttered.  There  was  a  stern  satisfaction 
in  being  able  to  speak  so. 

Queenie  took  a  new  tack.  "Oh,  well,  Gertie  ain't 
so  bad,"  she  announced,  guardedly,  "even  if  some 
people  may  n't  approve  of  everything  she  does. 
There's  a  lot  of  lovely  things  about  Gertie.  She'll 
do  absolutely  anything  for  you,  if  you  get  up  against 

239 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


it.  She 's  lent  me  money  over  and  over.  She's  awfully 
generous  to  her  friends.  I  never  heard  her  say  any- 
thing mean  and  nasty  about  any  one.  There's  a  pile 
of  girls  that  call  themselves  good  that  ain't  half  so 
good  at  heart  as  Gertie  Beauchamp,  if  I  do  say  it." 

"That  may  very  well  be,"  consented  Philip;  "but  I 
don't  think  it  makes  her  any  the  better  friend  for  you. 
It  makes  her  worse.  Unless  you're  prepared  to  go  as 
far  as  Gertie  goes,  you'd  better  not  be  too  intimate." 

The  girl  had  a  burst  of  sullen  defiance.  She  hated 
to  be  preached  to.  She  had  not  supposed  her  escort 
was  that  kind  of  a  man.  She  had  come  out  for  a  good 
time;  and  he  had  spoiled  everything. 

"Well,  what  if  I  do  go  the  whole  figure  some  day?" 
she  demanded,  hotly.  "That's  my  own  business,  ain't 
it  ?  I  don't  know  as  I  'm  so  terrible  sure  it  matters  like 
you  say.  It's  different  on  the  stage  than  what  it  is 
anywhere  else.  Everybody  knows  that.  In  our  busi- 
ness it's  'most  like  you  was  expected  to  do  that  way. 
Nobody  blames  you  at  all.  Now  look  at  Gertie  — 
Gertie 's  the  most  popular  girl  in  the  chorus.  I  never 
heard  anybody  say  a  word  against  her  till  this 
minute.  I  don't  believe  you  understand  at  all  what 
the  stage  is,  Mr.  Wetherell.  It  ain't  Hke  other  pro- 
fessions, not  the  least  bit  in  the  world." 

Philip  had  no  opportunity  to  reply,  for  at  this  mo- 
ment the  waiter  appeared  with  the  tea-things ;  and  for 
a  short  time  the  conversation  returned,  though  rather 

240 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


constrainedly,  to  its  usual  basis  of  trivialities.  But 
Queenie  was  out  of  spirits.  She  was  not  having  a 
good  time  at  all.  She  wished  she  had  accepted  an- 
other invitation  she  had  had  for  that  afternoon.  She 
would  n't  have  been  preached  to  like  this,  not  a  bit 
of  it. 

Rather  listlessly  she  devoted  herself  to  a  survey  of 
the  room.  She  was  sitting  in  the  corner,  and  could  see 
everything.  While  she  poured  the  tea,  she  made  com- 
ments on  the  various  little  groups  of  people  who  were 
seated  at  the  small  tables  by  the  windows.  Some 
looked  like  the  real  thing  to  her.  Over  there  was  a 
woman  who  ought  to  have  had  a  part  in  the  "Old 
Homestead."  Those  two  men  in  uniform  must  have 
come  off'n  one  of  the  warships.  Did  n't  a  uniform 
make  a  man  look  awfully  different,  though  ?  Prob- 
ably in  regular,  everyday  clothes  they  would  n't  be 
nowhere  near  so  stunning. 

"And  now  I  wonder  who  those  people  are,"  she 
continued,  "clear  over  there  by  the  door." 

Philip  did  not  turn  around,  for  he  knew  that  a 
description  would  follow. 

"There's  a  gent  and  two  ladies.  He  looks  some- 
thing like  the  man  who  plays  the  drum  in  our  orches- 
tra, only  he  ain't  so  fat  and  don't  wear  a  solitaire.  I 
wonder  would  one  of  the  women  be  his  wife.  The 
older  one,  I  guess.  She  kind  of  looks  that  way.  Seems 
to  me  you  can  'most  always  tell;  they're  so  sort  o'  dull 

241 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


lookin\  The  other's  a  regular  peach.  Graceful!  — 
say,  that's  no  word  for  it  at  all!  I  never  saw  the  beat 
of  it.  But  say,  Mr.  Wetherell,  if  you  had  hair  that  was 
the  colour  of  mashed  turnip,  would  n't  you  try  tintin' 
it  or  something?" 

A  sudden,  ungovernable  curiosity  compelled  the 
man  to  turn  his  head  —  an  instant  only,  but  long 
enough  to  send  the  blood  flying  out  of  his  cheeks. 
His  eyes  had  encountered  Katrinka's. 

She  had  been  in  animated  conversation  with  the 
woman  opposite ;  but  he  had  seen  the  words  falter  on 
her  Hps,  and  one  hand  leap  to  her  throat.  The  instinc- 
tive gesture  was  so  quickly  disguised  that  it  appeared 
to  be  merely  some  slight  readjustment  of  the  high 
collar  she  wore ;  but  Philip  had  understood  it. 

"Don't  you  think  that's  positively  the  weirdest  hair 
ever?"  pursued  Queenie,  munching  a  large  mouthful 
of  muffin. 

With  a  concentrated  effort  of  self-control,  Philip 
managed  to  give  a  satisfactorily  matter-of-fact  answer 
to  her  question.  It  was  a  crucial  moment.  He  knew 
that  he  must  not  lose  grip  on  himself,  whatever  the 
cost. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  why  she  needs  to  stare  at  me 
like  that,"  observed  Queenie,  with  a  conscious  little 
toss  of  the  head.  "She  looks  as  if  she'd  eat  me  up. 
My  goodness,  but  I  bet  you  that  woman  got  the 
temper  of   a  wild-beast.  —  Say,  Mr.  Wetherell,  is 

242 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


anything  the  matter  with  my  hat?  Does  it  look 
crooked?" 

"It  looks  perfectly  straight  to  me,"  answered 
PhiHp,  through  lips  that  felt  cold. 

"Well,"  flung  out  his  companion,  "if  she  thinks 
she  can  fuss  me,  she's  mistaken.  I  guess  two  can 
stare  as  well  as  one.   Cat!" 

Queenie  held  her  eyes  brazenly  fixed  on  the  comer 
of  the  room,  while  she  sipped  superciliously  out  of 
her  cup.  Philip  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  look 
quite  so  vulgar.  And  it  came  over  him  suddenly  what 
Katrinka's  interpretation  of  the  scene  would  be.  At 
the  thought  a  flood  of  flame  mounted  into  his  neck 
and  face.  His  head  began  to  swim. 

When  Queenie  at  last  deflected  her  gaze  —  it 
seemed  minutes  later  —  she  noticed  her  companion's 
embarrassment ;  and  a  quick  feeling  of  regret  came 
to  her  for  having  been  the  cause  of  it  by  her  bad 
manners. 

"Honestly,  Mr.  Wetherell,"  she  apologized,  "I'm 
sorry  I  did  that.  It  was  n't  refined  at  all,  and  I  know 
it.  When  I  get  my  back  up  I  don't  seem  to  have  no 
self-control;  and  that  woman  just  made  me  stark 
crazy  mad." 

If  Philip  was  singularly  unresponsive  during  the 
remainder  of  their  repast,  Queenie  attributed  it  to 
the  offence  he  had  taken,  and  did  her  best  to  make 
up  for  it  by  an  unexampled  docility  and  sweetness. 

243 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


She  agreed  with  every  remark  he  made;  she  fairly 
hung  on  his  words;  she  kept  her  eyes  devotedly 
turned  upon  him. 

At  last,  *'I  beheve  you  were  right,  Mr.  Wetherell," 
she  said,  contritely,  "about  that  thing  we  was  dis- 
cussin'  —  you  know  what  I  mean.  No,  a  girl  cer- 
tainly can't  be  too  careful,  as  things  are  nowadays.  I 
don't  know  but  I'll  have  to  give  Gertie  the  go-by 
after  all." 

"All  I  wanted,"  said  Philip,  resolutely  forcing  him- 
self into  the  subject,  telling  himself  that  it  didn't 
matter  any  more  what  the  woman  across  the  room 
might  think  of  the  spectacle  before  her,  —  that  was 
over !  —  "all  I  wanted  was  that  you  should  keep  your 
eyes  open;  be  on  the  watch,  you  know.  You  don't 
mind  my  taking  that  much  friendly  interest  in  you, 
do  you?" 

She  gave  him  a  sugary  look  of  gratitude.  "I  feel 
very  proud,"  she  said,  "that  you  would  go  to  all  that 
trouble  for  poor  little  me." 

The  affectation  in  her  voice  did  not  escape  him. 
He  had  a  sinking  conviction  that  nothing  he  had 
managed  to  say  had  been  of  the  least  avail.  At  the 
same  time,  he  had  apparently  won  his  point ;  and  he 
knew  that  nothing  would  be  gained  by  pursuing  the 
discussion  further.  In  any  case  his  present  mood 
made  it  impossible  for  him.  There  was  only  one 
thought  in  his  mind  —  that  Katrinka  would  believe 

244 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


he  had  lied  to  her;  that  everything  she  had  witnessed 
during  these  last  minutes  would  only  confirm  that 
belief. 

*^I  declare,"  said  Queenie,  ^^if  that  cat  isn't  still 
watching  me  out  of  the  tail  of  her  eye.  Say,  do  you 
mind,  Mr.  Wetherell,  if  I  go  to  the  dressing-room  and 
take  a  snook  in  the  glass?  I'm  sure  something's 
wrong." 

^^Don't  worry,"  said  her  companion.  ^^Isn't  my 
word  good  enough  for  you?" 

^^Oh,  a  man  never  knows  about  those  sort  of 
things,"  she  repHed.  ^^I  could  have  my  hd  on  upside 
down,  and  you'd  think  it  looked  just  exactly  as  well. 
I'll  be  back  in  a  minute." 

*^You  know  best,"  conceded  Philip. 

A  queer  panic  seized  him  at  the  thought  of  being 
left  alone ;  but  there  was  nothing  that  he  could  say  to 
Queenie. 

The  girl  bent  toward  him  ingratiatingly.  "I 
promise  you  I  won't  make  up  a  face  when  I  go  by  her 
table." 

She  rose,  gave  him  a  soft  little  smile,  and  departed. 

Philip  sat  in  his  chair,  moveless  as  a  wooden  image, 
not  touching  his  food,  overcome  with  a  mortification, 
a  sense  of  having  disgraced  himself,  that  was  as  cruel 
as  it  was  irrational. 

But  he  had  not  long  to  sit  thus.  He  heard  light 
steps  behind  him,  and  the  next  instant  an  apparition 

245 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


dropped  into  the  unoccupied  chair  opposite.  It  leaned 
toward  him  with  a  smile ;  but  behind  the  smile,  in  the 
depths  of  the  panther-like  eyes  of  gold-grey,  there  were 
both  contempt  and  wild  anguish.  Two  words  came 
from  her  white  lips,  hissed  so  low  that  no  ear  but  his 
would  have  known  she  had  spoken ;  yet  they  shivered 
through  his  being. 

^^You  lied." 

His  eyes  fastened  upon  her  with  tortured  pleading, 
and  would  not  let  go. 

*Tlease!  —  Please!"  he  begged,  in  the  words  a 
child  might  employ,  seeking  to  be  spared  a  punish- 
ment. ''It's  not  true,  Katrinka.  You  don't  under- 
stand. What  I  wrote  you  was  true  —  every  word  of 
it.  This  can  all  be  explained." 

''That's  very  easy  to  say,"  she  retorted,  icily. 

"  It 's  the  truth !  It 's  the  truth !  I  give  you  my  word 
of  honour." 

"Will  you  explain  it  to  me,  if  I  offer  you  the 
chance?" 

The  man  did  not  realize  what  he  was  saying.  "Yes, 
give  me  the  chance.  Give  it  to  me.  I  would  be  killed 
sooner  than  have  you  think  I  lied  to  you." 

The  woman's  eyes  narrowed.  Her  face  was  at  once 
terrible  and  tender.  "I  would  kill  you,  Philip,"  she 
said,  "sooner  than  have  you  leave  me  for  a  girl  like 
that.  If  you  do  not  come  to-night,  I  shall  know  why." 

Without  another  word  she  departed.  He  did  not 
246 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


look  around,  but  continued  sitting  there  with  his  el- 
bows on  the  table,  his  eyes  bhndly  on  the  empty  chair, 
until  Queenie  returned  —  he  did  not  know  how  long 
after. 

"Much  good  that  trip  did,"  she  announced,  dryly, 
as  she  flounced  down  into  her  chair,  and  began  preen- 
ing her  feathers  like  a  little  bantam  hen.  "The  hat 
was  all  right.  Tea's  got  stone  cold,  I  suppose;  and 
now  she's  gone  into  the  bargain,  along  with  the  rest. 
Say,  ain't  that  the  absolute  limit?" 


XXII 

Philip  ordered  a  taxicab  for  the  home  trip.  In  his 
present  turbulent  state  of  mind  he  could  not  endure 
the  thought  of  making  himself  again  an  object  of 
common  curiosity.  He  wanted  to  bring  the  futile, 
disastrous  afternoon  to  as  prompt  a  close  as  possible. 

Queenie's  spirits  had  suffered  only  a  transitory 
depression.  At  the  sight  of  the  taxicab  she  was  quite 
herself  again,  and  during  the  entire  journey  chattered 
with  the  blithe  inanity  of  a  magpie.  It  was  an  addi- 
tional sop  to  her  vanity  that  her  escort  would  not 
accept  her  invitation  to  come  upstairs  to  supper,  since 
it  showed  conclusively  that  his  main  interest  was 
centred  in  herself. 

"Well,  it's  been  a  perfectly  grand  time,"  she  said, 
giving  him  an  astonishing  arm-length,  crook-wristed 
grip  of  farewell.  "Good-by,  Mr.  Wetherell;  and  I'm 
goin'  to  remember  what  you  said." 

She  whisked  into  the  narrow,  dimly  lit  corridor  of 
the  tenement.  Philip  dismissed  the  cab,  and  set  out  at 
a  stiff  pace  down  the  street,  careless  of  where  he  was 
going.  All  he  wanted  was  to  get  his  excitement  into 
harness.  Just  now  it  dominated  him  to  the  point  of 
making  rational  thought  impossible. 

What  a  gruesome  mockery  the  whole  enterprise 
248 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


had  been  from  the  start !  He  cursed  himself  for  having 
gone  into  it.  The  memory  of  what  it  had  vainly  com- 
pelled him  to  sacrifice  blasted  his  pride,  and  blew  to  a 
flame  resentment  and  desire.  This  was  all  that  it  had 
come  to :  he  was  branded  as  a  liar  and  a  hypocrite. 

The  ferocious  impulse  seized  him  to  throw  up  the 
whole  ridiculous  game,  to  trample  underfoot  his  new 
pretensions  to  a  morality  that  was  not  of  the  heart, 
and  to  make  terms  once  more  with  the  goddess  of  his 
idolatry,  his  lovely  serpent  of  old  Nile,  his  sprite  of 
the  forest  of  dreams.  Was  it  not  this  very  impulse, 
obscure  at  the  moment  and  unrecognized,  that  had 
caused  him  to  accede  to  her  challenge  that  afternoon  ? 

Something  more,  certainly,  than  a  jealousy  for  his 
honour,  a  mere  desire  to  be  vindicated  in  her  eyes,  had 
prompted  the  impassioned  promise.  —  Ah,  to  be  once 
more  where  she  was,  to  surrender  to  the  subtle, 
capricious  magic  of  her  voice,  to  have  the  storm 
within  him  lulled  by  her  tenderness,  and  to  drink  yet 
once  again  at  the  fountain  of  forgetf ulness !  .  .  . 

He  became  aware  of  an  echo  in  his  brain  that  would 
not  be  silenced :  words  that  had  awakened,  and  that 
reverberated  harshly,  imperiously  upon  the  barriers 
of  consciousness.  The  hill-dweller  had  pitched  his 
tents  under  the  very  walls  of  the  city;  and  he  would 
not  be  driven  back. 

So  the  host  of  the  stern  God  of  Sinai  encamped 
before  Jericho;  and  so  they  made  the  circuit  of  the 

249. 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


doomed  ramparts,  blowing  the  trumpets  of  ram's 
horn,  marching  resolutely,  undauntedly,  resistlessly 
upon  the  fateful  journey  of  conquest,  high-ordained. 
Within  the  gates  of  the  city  of  pleasure  were  defiant 
laughter,  sullen  disbelief,  and,  deep  in  the  heart,  fear. 
And  the  city  was  circuited  seven  times,  —  seven  days. 

^^  Whatever  may  be  right  or  wrong  for  another,  I 
know  that  for  me  this  has  been  wrong  from  the  first 
day."  ... 

Something  stem  and  lofty  in  the  man's  soul  was 
thrilled  by  the  echoing  declaration,  —  a  declaration 
to  which  he  had  committed  himself,  and  which  he 
knew  to  hold  the  truth  as  he  had  seen  it  at  a  moment 
of  clearest,  most  dispassionate  vision.  His  vision  was 
not  dispassionate  now.  He  had  only  the  explicit 
declaration,  and  his  knowledge  of  what  it  stood  for, 
to  hold  him.  His  nimble  reason  had  been  brought 
once  to  bay,  and  this  is  what  it  had  given  utterance  to. 
It  was  his  option  now  to  crucify  his  honesty  of  soul,  or 
to  subjugate  the  enemy. 

He  felt  the  sinews  of  his  mind  grow  tough  as  iron. 
Here  was  a  conquest  that  called  for  strength  and  man- 
hood and  an  austere,  unflinching  nobility  of  resolu- 
tion. There  ran  in  his  veins  the  blood  of  those  who 
had  crossed  storm-vexed  seas  for  a  moral  ideal,  and 
had  praised  God  that  he  accorded  them  a  place  to  set 
up  their  rest  amongst  the  ice-clad  hills  of  a  desert 
land.  For  an  ideal,  once  it  had  irrevocably  called  him, 

250 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


he  could  be  cruel;  he  could  tear  his  own  flesh  from 
his  bones;  he  could  strangle  every  desire  for  easeful 
softness,  pleasure,  and  forgetfulness. 

Philip  took  no  supper  that  evening.  When  the  stars 
came  out  he  was  still  walking. 

Shortly  before  nine  o'clock  he  found  himself  stand- 
ing on  the  threshold  of  Katrinka's  apartment.  She 
did  not  rise  to  greet  him,  but  continued  to  sit  in  silence 
in  the  deep  chair  by  the  fire,  with  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  him. 

She  was  garbed  in  a  sheeny  gown  of  dull  yellow 
that  clung  audaciously  to  her  supple  figure  and  fell  in 
luxuriant  drapery  folds  over  the  base  of  the  chair. 
The  expression  in  her  face  was  veiled ;  but  he  had  never 
felt  so  powerfully  the  indicible  spell  of  it.  Such  a  face 
might  have  peered  for  an  instant  into  the  eyes  of  some 
ruthless  woodsman  in  the  forest,  as  he  felled  the  secu- 
lar oak  —  an  instant  only,  with  a  faint  shriek  of  pain 
and  fright,  from  among  the  debris  of  leaves  and 
branches,  but  to  haunt  him  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

A  crushing  misery  that  was  closely  akin  to  shame 
and  remorse  came  upon  him.  For  a  time  —  it  seemed 
minutes  —  he  could  not  speak.  He  had  an  almost  ir- 
resistible impulse  to  fling  himself  at  her  feet,  burying 
his  face  in  the  folds  of  her  gown  and  imploring 
her  forgiveness.  Yet  he  remained  standing,  motion- 
less, on  the  threshold.  At  last  words  came  to  his 
lips. 

251 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


'^Do  you  want  me  to  explain  that  thing  to  you?" 
he  asked. 

Slowly,  very  slightly,  she  shook  her  head,  while 
her  tired,  frightened  eyes  clung  to  his,  as  might  the 
eyes  of  a  doomed  prisoner  to  the  last  gleams  of  sun- 
light. 

*^No,"  she  answered,  in  a  strangely  quiet  voice. 
*/I  know  you  have  never  lied  to  me.  —  What  does  it 
matter  about  that?" 

*'Then  what  did  you  want  me  to  come  here  for?" 
he  demanded,  dully,  struggling  to  master  the  anguish 
in  his  throat. 

She  opened  her  eyes  wide  with  a  dimmed  wonder. 

*'Why?  — Because  I  love  you,  my  Lippo.  Is  not 
that  reason  enough  ?'' 

The  man  drew  his  hand  vaguely  across  his  brow,  as 
if  to  dispel  the  quivering  mirage  that  dazzled  and 
beckoned. 

'^But  you  knew  I  could  not  stay,"  he  responded, 
hoarsely.  '^It  only  makes  good-by  the  more  cruel,  the 
longer  it  is  put  ojff .  I  see  the  way  I  must  go,  and  it  is 
too  late  to  draw  back  now." 

He  started  abruptly  for  the  hallway,  holding  the 
wall  with  one  hand.  But  a  low,  pleading  cry  arrested 
him. 

"Philip  — Come  back." 

He  turned,  automatically. 

**Sit  down.  —  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 
252^ 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


He  obeyed  with  the  uncanny  docility  of  one  in  an 
hypnotic  trance. 

^^I  know  we  must  say  good-by  to  each  other, — 
dear.  I  know  I  cannot  make  you  happy,  no  matter 
how  hard  I  try.  There  is  something  in  you  that  can- 
not be  satisfied  except  in  some  more  noble  way  than 
mine.  But  I  do  not  want  you  to  think  I  have  not 
any  heart.  If  you  suffer,  Lippo,  I  am  suffering,  too. 
It  is  not  very  pleasant  to  feel  that  the  one  man  in 
the  world  you  love  has  cast  you  away.  I  do  not  want 
you  to  think  that  I  am  small  and  mean ;  and  that 
I  try  to  keep  you  against  your  will.  Look,  dear,  —  I 
send  you  away.  Our  lives  are  different.  You  have  not 
truly  belonged  to  me  even  for  a  day.  I  have  known 
it;  but  I  did  not  want  to  confess  it.  You  have  be- 
longed to  the  other  one  —  the  one  I  took  you  away 
from.  Go  back  to  her,  Philip.  It  is  she  can  make 
you  happy." 

"I  cannot  go  back  to  her,"  groaned  the  man,  star- 
ing blindly  into  the  fire.  ^^She  has  sent  me  away,  too. 
I  am  not  worthy  of  her." 

"Then  there  is  no  one?"  she  asked,  with  a  quick 
lift  of  one  hand  to  her  bosom. 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"And  you  go  away  to  be  all  alone?" 

He  nodded  mechanically. 

The  next  instant  she  was  on  his  knees,  her  white 
arms  flung  endearingly  about  his  neck. 

253 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


"Lippo,  —  my  Lippo,  —  why  will  you  not  stay 
with  me  then  just  a  little  longer?" 

Her  warm  fragrance  enveloped  him.  Her  soft 
hands  were  in  his  hair. 

"Listen.  Next  week  —  only  eight  days  —  I  go 
away  from  here,  perhaps  for  always  and  always.  I 
just  have  a  letter  from  Frederic  that  he  wants  me  to 
meet  him  at  Monte  Carlo  in  April.  Come,  my  dear, 
say  we  will  still  have  a  few  happy  times  together, 
he?'' 

He  buried  his  face,  sobbing,  on  her  shoulder,  while 
his  senses  almost  swooned  with  yearning.  She  patted 
his  shoulder  fondly. 

"That  would  not  do  much  harm  to  your  poor  little 
conscience,  he  —  not  so  very,  very  much.  You  could 
do  that  for  your  little  Trinka  who  adores  you?" 

He  held  her  close  in  his  arms  with  a  pressure  that 
meant  surrender;  but  something  in  him  had  not  yet 
surrendered.  Something  in  him  was  sternly,  tyran- 
nically crying  out  to  his  reeling  spirit.  Remembered 
words  of  fiery  import  seared  his  consciousness  and 
dissipated  its  delirium.  The  hill-dweller  was  arising 
in  the  might  of  those  who  thanked  God  for  an  icy 
desert,  if  so  be  that  truth  might  prevail ;  and  he  bade 
the  man  be  cruel,  that  he  might  be  true. 

Blindly  Philip  released  himself  and  sprang  to  his 
feet. 

I  can't.   I  can't,"  he  cried.   "I  said  it  must  be 
254 


a 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


good-by  now.  It  must  be  good-by  now.  This  is  the 
end." 

The  woman  sank  upon  the  lounge,  as  if  dealt  a 
numbing  blow,  shielding  her  white  face  with  her 
hands,  making  no  sound. 

And  in  the  stricken  silence  that  followed,  Philip 
made  his  way,  steadily  and  without  quailing,  into  the 
hall,  put  on  his  coat  and  hat,  opened  the  door  of 
the  apartment,  and  went  out.  The  hill-man,  with 
the  sinews  of  iron,  had  won  again.  Was  it  the  final 
victory  ? 


XXIII 

For  five  nights  and  five  days  Philip's  soul  walked 
alone  through  a  dark  valley  of  desolation.  He  had 
won  a  victory ;  he  had  put  to  the  test  the  stern  mettle 
of  his  inheritance,  and  it  had  not  been  found  wanting ; 
he  had  had  the  courage  to  do  the  thing  he  knew  he 
ought  to  do. 

But  how  empty,  how  barren  it  all  was  in  its  frui- 
tion! Starvation  ravened  at  the  very  centre  of  his 
being.  The  famine-stricken  heart  found  no  suste- 
nance in  the  consciousness  that  the  behests  of  duty 
had  been  obeyed.  The  memory  of  his  last  sight  of 
Katrinka,  sunken  to  the  couch  as  if  mortally  hurt,  her 
white  hands  raised  defensively  to  shield  her  face  from 
the  next  blow,  —  Katrinka  who  loved  him,  and  who 
had  tried  to  make  him  happy,  —  this  memory  and  a 
thousand  others  haunted  him. 

He  worked  ferociously  both  at  the  office  and  at 
home.  Work  was  like  a  drug.  It  brought  a  momen- 
tary alleviation  of  his  wretchedness;  it  enabled  him 
for  a  little  time  to  forget. 

His  heart  seized  upon  what  humble  forage  it  could 
find  along  the  highways  and  hedges.  At  noon  he 
lingered  wistfully  about  the  north  side  of  the  Post- 
Office,  where  the  great  mail-wagons  were  standing 

256 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


in  a  long  row;  and  he  surreptitiously  made  over- 
tures of  affection  to  the  horses,  bribing  them  with 
quarters  of  apple  and  lumps  of  sugar.  Their  dumb, 
wise-eyed  responsiveness  was  not  without  its  balm 
for  his  spirit.  Much  to  her  disgust,  Victorine  found 
herself  again  compelled  to  open  a  cat  and  dog  ward 
in  the  basement  extension,  but  her  thrifty  soul  could 
not  resist  the  weekly  lure  of  an  extra  dollar  and  a 
half. 

Philip  encountered  Irene  Muller  only  once.  He 
had  hoped  to  avoid  her  entirely.  He  felt  as  if  he  could 
never  endure  to  hear  Queenie's  name  again.  Every 
morning  he  left  the  house  early,  and  he  did  not  return 
until  after  dinner.  But  Irene  lay  in  wait  for  him.  She 
had  something  to  tell  him,  which  she  believed  would 
make  him  happy.  She  arrived  at  eight  o'clock  one 
morning  and  camped  out  beside  the  mail-box  until 
her  friend  descended. 

"I  was  just  bound  I  would  n't  miss  you  again,''  she 
declared,  loyally.  "You're  gettin'  away  terrible  early 
these  days,  ain't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Philip,  "early  for  me.  I'm  crowding 
on  the  work  just  now." 

"You  look  awful  tired,"  she  ventured,  with  sisterly 
concern.  "I  do  hope  you  ain't  overdoing." 

"Oh,  it's  good  for  me,"  he  replied,  offhandedly. 

He  made  a  movement  to  open  the  door.  She  gave 
him  a  half-reproachful  look. 

257 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


"I  wasn't  goin'  to  keep  you  but  a  minute/'  she 
said.  "But  p'raps  you  ain't  got  the  time." 

He  drew  back  his  hand  from  the  knob. 

"Of  course  I  have.  Is  it  something  about  your 
sister?" 

"It  is." 

Her  voice  dropped  to  a  confidential  whisper.  "Oh, 
do  you  know,  Mr.  Wetherell,  I  believe  we've  saved 
our  little  Queenie." 

Her  auditor  had  only  a  sinking  sensation  at  the 
eager  words ;  but  he  smiled  with  a  semblance  of  grati- 
fication. 

"Indeed,  I  hope  it  may  be  true,"  he  replied. 

"I'm  sure  it's  true.  She  told  me  you  were  just  like 
a  brother  to  her.  She  said  you  done  her  such  a  lot  of 
good.  Oh,  Mr.  Wetherell,  I  don't  know  how  I'm  ever 
goin'  to  thank  you." 

Her  eyes  were  swimming,  and  she  made  haste  to 
mop  them  violently. 

"I'm  an  awful  cry-baby,"  she  explained  candidly, 
"when  my  emotions  get  played  on." 

Philip  blushed  deeply.  "I  don't  flatter  myself  that 
I  deserve  your  gratitude,"  he  remarked.  "But  if  any- 
thing I  said  really  counted,  I'm  sure  I'm  very  glad." 

Irene  was  the  picture  of  radiant  confidence.  She 
asked  Philip  to  take  supper  with  them  that  evening. 

"I  just  want  you  to  see  for  yourself  how  she's 
changed  already,"  she  urged. 

258 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Philip  declined  her  invitation  on  the  plea  of  his 
work ;  but  he  promised  to  come  to  Smilax  Street  the 
subsequent  week.  He  told  himself  that  he  would  be  in 
a  better  mood  for  it  by  that  time.  Just  now  even 
Irene's  sturdy  friendship  was  like  apples  of  Sodom  to 
his  hunger. 

"We  want  you  to  feel,"  she  said,  in  conclusion,  with 
a  luminous,  dramatic  smile,  "that  our  home  is  always 
open  to  you." 

But  if  circumstances  for  which  she  was  not  respon- 
sible had  for  the  moment  cast  a  blight  upon  his  rela- 
tion with  Irene,  there  was  one  personal  relation  that 
had  quite  escaped  that  fate.  The  new  intimacy  that 
had  sprung  into  being  between  himself  and  John 
Barry  was  entirely  outside  their  influence,  and  daily 
grew  more  precious  to  him.  The  barrier  which  this 
haughty  recluse  had  so  jealously  guarded  had  been 
demolished  now  by  his  own  hands,  and  he  opened 
his  heart  to  the  lad  with  an  undisguised  affection 
which  was  the  more  appealing  because  of  its  diffidence 
and  awkwardness  in  self-expression.  One  could 
almost  believe  that  this  was  the  first  time  a  sentiment 
of  human  tenderness  had  blossomed  in  the  bitter 
soil  of  his  heart,  he  seemed  so  at  a  loss  what -to  make 
of  it. 

The  quick  lighting  up  of  his  furrowed  countenance 
whenever  Philip  entered  the  room,  the  solicitous  in- 
terest with  which  he  inquired  after  the  success  of  the 

259 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


day's  labours,  the  unaffected  pleasure  he  evinced  in 
reporting  any  slight,  amusing  incident  of  his  own 
day,  —  all  so  sharply  contrasted  with  his  earlier 
aloofness  and  reticence,  —  deeply  touched  the  boy's 
sympathies.  The  man  seemed  to  be  surprised  him- 
self at  his  change  of  attitude,  and  at  times,  in  the 
midst  of  some  personal  reminiscence,  as  they  sat,  late 
in  the  evening,  before  the  glowing  Franklin  stove  in 
Philip's  room,  he  would  abruptly  check  himself,  and 
gaze  for  a  time  in  meditative  silence  into  the  fire. 

^*I  can't  imagine,"  he  said  one  evening  after  such  a 
pause,  "why  I  like  to  tell  you  all  these  things.  I  never 
talked  so  to  any  one  else." 

He  laughed  awkwardly,  and  spat  into  the  fire. 
Philip  took  several  puffs  at  his  pipe  before  he  found  an 
explanation  to  offer. 

"It's  partly  that  your  other  friends  have  had  more 
intellectual  interests  in  common  with  you,"  he  sug- 
gested.  "You  can't  talk  shop  with  me." 

"My  other  friends!"  echoed  Barry,  with  a  mirth- 
less laugh.  "I  never  had  any.  I've  never  desired 
friendship.  I've  never  known  what  it  was.  That's 
what  makes  it  so  surprising  that  it  should  have  come 
to  me,  unasked." 

Though  he  never  offered  the  younger  man  a  con- 
nected narrative  of  his  life,  he  no  longer  entertained 
the  least  secretiveness  in  regard  to  it.  He  seemed  anx- 
ious to  be  understood.    He  seemed  to  covet  Philip's 

260 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


respect,  to  want  to  prove  to  him,  if  he  might,  that  he 
was  not  entirely  unworthy  of  the  friendship  so  freely 
offered.  Bit  by  bit  Philip  came  into  possession  of  the 
harsh  outlines  of  his  history ;  and,  in  measure  as  he 
did  so,  he  ceased  to  wonder  at  the  cynicism  of  the 
man. 

Before  her  love-child  was  five  years  old,  his  mother, 
an  ignorant  country  girl  of  the  Potomac  highlands, 
had  found  a  husband,  and  followed  him  up  the  Shen- 
andoah Valley,  leaving  the  child  in  the  possession  of 
a  shrewd,  heartless  grandmother. 

^^If  among  all  my  precious  fellow-beings  I  have 
despised  one  more  than  the  rest,"  said  Barry,  bit- 
terly, "it  is  the  man  who  was  responsible  for  my  exist- 
ence, —  some  sneaking,  Psalm-singing  captain  in  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac,  whom  granny  nursed  in  her 
own  cottage.  It  does  n't  matter  to  me  whether  the 
old  woman  had  some  diabolical  scheme  of  her  own 
or  not:  she  was  capable  of  it;  it's  certain  she  black- 
mailed him  for  twelve  years,  perhaps  longer.  I  ran 
away  at  the  age  of  twelve,  and  never  saw  her  again, 
nor  my  mother ;  and  from  neither  of  them  had  I  ever 
learned  my  father's  name.  I  don't  know  whether 
he's  alive  or  dead;  but  I've  cursed  him  all  my  life 
for  a  sneak  and  a  coward.  If  his  eternal  happi- 
ness hung  on  a  word  of  mine,  I  would  n't  speak  the 
word." 

Something  Philip  learned  of  the  terrible  struggle 
261 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


the  proud,  friendless  lad  had  made,  finding  his  way 
barefooted  to  Baltimore,  penniless,  ignorant  of  the 
world,  with  nothing  to  support  him  in  the  fight  except 
an  indomitable  resolution  to  win  out. 

"At  eighteen,'^  he  said,  "late  one  night  in  the  little 
room  behind  the  drug-store,  where  I  was  boning  away 
by  myself  for  some  college  examinations,  I  came  upon 
that  first  soUloquy  of  Gloucester's  bastard  son  in 
"  King  Lear."   Do  you  remember  it? 

"  Thou,  Nature,  art  my  goddess.  To  thy  law 
My  services  are  bound.  Wherefore  should  I 
Stand  in  the  plague  of  custom  ?  —  " 

He  recited  a  dozen  lines  of  the  famous  speech  with 
impressive  fervour. 

"For  me,"  he  observed,  "that  was  a  declaration  of 
faith.  It  was  a  truth  I  had  always  felt,  always  believed, 
always  known,  indeed,  —  that,  bastard  though  I  might 
be,  I  was  not  of  baser,  but  of  nobler  composition  than 
the  rabble.  I  had  the  unconquerable  conviction  in 
me  that  I  could  achieve  something,  arrive  somewhere, 
be  some  one.  Already  I  had  cHmbed  from  starving 
errand-boy  to  apothecary's  clerk;  I  had  educated 
myself  until  I  was  nearly  ready  for  college,  —  late  at 
night,  often  after  one  o'clock  I  was  studying ;  and  long 
before  daylight,  winter  mornings,  after  I  had  swept 
out  the  shop  and  built  the  fire,  I  would  plunge  into 
my  books  again.   I  went  without  shoes  to  get  books, 

262 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


especially  Darwin  and  Tyndall  and  the  other  natu- 
ralists of  the  revolutionary  epoch.  Huxley  was  my 
idol ;  it  was  he  that  determined  me,  at  whatever  cost, 
to  force  my  way  into  the  domain  of  science,  —  the 
domain  of  my  natal  goddess." 

Some  glimpses  Philip  had  into  the  turbulent,  auda- 
cious years  that  followed:  the  brief  enrolment  as 
scholarship  student  at  a  sectarian  college,  where  his 
radical  views,  arrogantly  asserted,  came  promptly 
into  fatal  clash  with  the  rigid  conservatism  of  the 
teaching;  then  years  of  undaunted  self-preparation 
for  the  university,  while  from  morning  till  evening  he 
slaved  over  druggist's  prescriptions  and  account- 
books  to  lay  by  a  scanty  hoard ;  the  proud  day  when 
he  saw  himself  listed  as  a  candidate  for  an  advanced 
degree  at  a  prominent  institution  of  learning;  the 
brilliant  promise  of  his  scholarly  career,  and  then  — 
in  the  midst  of  it  —  the  falling  of  a  new,  blasting 
shadow  across  his  life,  a  shadow  that  had  come  upon 
him  insidiously,  almost  unawares,  until  its  blackness 
enveloped  him. 

^'I  had  the  curse  —  the  inherited  predisposition  in 
me.  And  I  was  overworking.  The  thing  was  always 
waiting  there  to  give  me  rest,  to  make  me  forget 
fatigue  and  discouragement,  a  good  familiar  creature, 
as  lago  terms  it.  It  never  seemed  to  be  my  own  hand 
that  reached  out  and  took  it;  it  was  some  shadowy 
hand  out  of  the  undying  past.  I  say  that  not  to  excuse 

263 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


myself,  but  in  the  attempt  to  account  for  the  fact  that 
it  seemed  to  be  the  one  point  where  my  volition  was 
of  no  avail.'' 

And  the  curse  had  wrought  disgrace  at  the  very 
moment  when  a  success  more  conspicuous  than  any 
that  preceded  seemed  to  be  within  his  grasp :  a  pro- 
motion to  full  professorship  in  the  large  western  uni- 
versity where  he  held  an  appointment. 

"Only  three  persons  in  the  world,"  said  Barry, 
"know  what  has  become  of  that  man." 

Philip  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"Three  men,"  repeated  Barry;  "my  lawyer,  the 
dean  of  the  faculty  of  science,  and  you." 

"How  long  ago  was  that?" 

His  companion  made  a  brief  mental  calculation. 
"Two  years,  eight  months,  thirteen  days,"  he  an- 
nounced, grimly.  "Having  concluded  that  the  game 
was  up,  I  dressed  myself  Hke  a  hobo,  got  away  at 
night  before  the  trustees  had  time  to  take  any  action, 
beat  my  way  to  Seattle,  and  shipped  on  a  lumber 
schooner,  under  a  new  name,  for  Sitka.  I  roughed  it 
down  there  for  a  year  and  seven  months.  I  thought 
I'd  abandoned  the  other  thing  —  the  intellectual 
thing  —  forever ;  but  it  would  n't  release  me. 

"Finally  I  saw  that  I  must  get  back  into  it  or  die 
in  the  effort.  I  had  to  come  back.  I  chose  New  York 
because  of  the  libraries  and  museums,  and  also  be- 
cause nobody  knew  me  here,  though  for  that  matter 

264 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


Alaska  had  put  a  beard  on  my  face  and  pretty  much 
changed  my  complexion." 

*'How  long  have  you  been  here?''  asked  Philip. 

*^Ten  months.  I  earn  twenty-two  fifty  per  week  at 
a  wholesale  drug-house,  and  outside  I'm  working  up 
a  bit  of  embryological  research  I  was  engaged  on 
when  the  smash-up  came.  I  've  gone  under  only  twice. 
I  have  n't  taken  a  drop  for  eight  months.  I  'm  hold- 
ing my  own.    I  may  win  yet." 

*^Win!"  said  Philip,  admiringly.  "You'll  win  all 
right!" 

"It's  not  hard  to  be  confident,"  observed  Barry, 
critically,  "when  you  don't  fully  know  the  nature  of 
the  difficulties.  On  a  night  like  this  assurance  and 
hopefulness  come  readily.  But  who  can  say  when  the 
next  madness  may  descend  upon  him  ?  I ' ve  been  in  a 
restless,  ticklish  condition  of  mind  all  this  week.  It 
disturbs  me  a  little.  The  end  has  n't  come  yet  —  I 
know  that  much." 

Philip  had  an  impulse  to  say  something;  but  he 
did  not.  Barry  perceived  the  promise  of  loyalty  in  his 
face,  and  no  words  were  needed. 

It  was  a  source  of  genuine  comfort  to  the  boy  to 
know  that  in  at  least  one  human  relation  he  held  a 
positive  and  useful  standing.  It  came  to  him  also  that 
there  was  a  strange  fellowship  in  the  struggles  they 
were  making.  What  was  the  snare  from  which  he  was 
forcing  himself  to  break  free  but  a  species  of  intoxica- 

265 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


tion,  a  cup  that  beaded  to  the  brim  with  exhilaration 
and  rapture,  but  that  held  in  its  dregs  shame.  He  did 
not  tell  Barry  of  the  conflict  that  was  racking  his 
own  soul,  for  he  was  reluctant  to  add  to  the  older 
man's  burden  of  bitterness;  but  he  derived  a  secret 
inspiration  and  reinforcement  from  the  thought  that 
they  were  standing  together  for  an  ideal  of  self- 
mastery. 

Yet  how  slowly,  how  heavily  and  thanklessly,  the 
week  crawled  by.  Every  night  the  thought  over- 
whelmed him  that  another  day  had  been  subtracted 
from  the  fateful  sum.  It  was  an  unspeakable  relief 
to  know  that  the  end  was  near.  It  was  also  anguish 
of  heart. 

The  thought  never  left  him  that  still,  still  there 
would  be  time  to  return  to  Katrinka.  She  would  have 
a  welcome  for  him  even  to  the  final  hour.  She  would 
forget  his  cruelty.  She  would  sing  again  the  old, 
oblivious  Siren-song  that  his  senses  were  famished 
to  hear.  A  dozen  times  he  was  on  the  point  of  writing 
to  her.  He  seemed  to  know  that,  before  the  week  was 
out,  he  was  going  to  write  to  her.  A  deep,  unac- 
knowledged intimation  came  to  him  that  his  strength 
was  not  going  to  hold  out  much  longer.  The  strug- 
gle was  too  ruthlessly  exhausting;  the  yielding  too 
easy,  too  excusable,  so  to  speak,  to  be  forever  resisted. 
But  the  shackled,  heavy-footed  days  crawled  by;  and 
still  he  had  not  yielded. 

266 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Friday  evening,  as  he  mounted  the  second  flight  of 
stairs,  his  nostrils  detected  a  remembered  aroma.  His 
neighbour  was  making  cofifee.  A  quick,  anxious  sus- 
picion hurried  his  steps.  He  threw  down  the  port- 
folio he  was  carrying,  upon  his  table,  in  the  dark, 
and  entered  the  front  apartment. 

Barry  was  lying  on  the  bed,  fully  dressed.  But  for 
his  eyes,  which  were  wide  open  and  glowed  with 
feverish  brightness,  he  looked  like  a  dead  man,  with 
colourless,  sunken  features,  and  a  posture  of  unnatural 
rigidity.  At  the  sight  of  the  boy  he  half  rose,  putting 
a  hand  roughly,  vaguely,  to  his  brow. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "you've  come." 

Philip  threw  off  his  coat,  and  sat  down  on  the  edge 
of  the  table. 

"Sure,"  he  said.  "And  I'm  going  to  stay  awhile, 
if  you'll  let  me." 

The  older  man  stared  at  him,  without  smiling. 
"I'd  made  up  my  mind,"  he  muttered,  hoarsely, 
"to  wait  until  eight  o'clock;  and  if  you  hadn't 
come  by  then,  I  'd  have  gone.  I  had  only  ten  more 
minutes  to  wait.  I  hoped  you  would  n't  come  till 
afterwards." 

"But  I  did  come,"  said  Philip.  "So  now  you  can't 
get  rid  of  me." 

He  saw  the  muscles  of  the  man's  ashen  face  working 
spasmodically,  as  he  braced  himself  for  the  new 
battle. 

267 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"That's  good  of  you,"  said  Barry,  resolutely. 
"Perhaps  I  shall  pull  out  of  it  yet." 

"Why  don't  we  go  to  the  theatre?"  suggested  the 
boy.  —  "Some  noisy,  trashy  thing,  with  cheap  music 
and  a  lot  of  horse-laughs.  Don't  you  think  that  would 
be  sort  of  fun?" 

"Let's  try  it,"  said  Barry,  rising  to  his  feet  and 
shaking  himself.  "I  don't  care  much  what  we  do,  so 
long  as  we  do  something.  I  think  I'd  like  to  see  a 
show." 

They  went  to  a  music  hall  on  Eighth  Avenue. 
They  sat  in  the  dirty  second  balcony  and  smoked, 
and  Philip  plunged  into  a  hot  argument,  between  the 
acts,  with  a  couple  of  newsboys  over  the  respective 
merits  of  the  various  performers.  Barry  appeared  to 
be  amused,  though  he  maintained  an  almost  unbroken 
silence ;  and  his  companion  was  hopeful. 

Shortly  after  eleven  they  were  on  the  street  again. 
They  walked  for  an  hour  before  returning  home.  The 
evening  was  behind  them.  Yet  Philip  knew  that 
Barry  was  still  in  the  midst  of  his  ordeal.  He  con- 
tinually felt  his  arm  shaking  vnth  a  nervous  chill. 
Once  he  had  perceived  his  teeth  chattering,  though 
the  air  was  mild.  When  they  reached  the  head  of  the 
stairs,  Philip  suspected  a  reluctance  on  the  man's 
part  to  be  left  alone. 

"Wait,"  he  said.  "Why  don't  I  tow  my  cot  into 
your  room?  I'd  sleep  just  as  well  there." 

268 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"Oh  —  are  you  sure?''  asked  Barry,  intently. 

They  took  up  the  narrow  couch  and  carried  it  in, 
setting  it  down  alongside  the  other.  Then  they  went 
to  bed.  Philip  pretended  to  go  to  sleep;  but  he  did 
not,  in  reality,  for  a  moment.  He  heard  Barry's  rest- 
less breathing ;  he  heard  him  turn  and  toss ;  more  than 
once  he  heard  him  muttering  incoherent  things  to 
himself.  Perhaps  two  hours  passed.  Then  the  man 
had  a  protracted  chill.  The  trembling  of  the  bed  was 
communicated.  Philip  even  heard  the  chattering  of 
his  teeth.  He  lay  there,  for  a  time,  motionless,  in 
aching  sympathy;  but  at  last  he  could  endure  it  no 
longer.  He  slipped  without  a  word  into  the  next  bed, 
and  took  the  suffering  man  in  his  arms,  warming  him 
with  his  own  body. 

"Poor  old  chap!"  he  muttered.  "It's  pretty 
damned  rough." 

After  a  while  Barry  grew  quiet  again,  and  fell  off 
into  a  restless  slumber.  Philip  returned  to  his  cot; 
and  when  morning  came,  no  mention  was  made  by 
either  of  them  of  the  circumstance. 

Barry  looked  sick,  and  utterly  discouraged. 

"You'd  better  let  me  go,"  he  said.  "It's  no  use 
trying  to  stave  it  off  any  longer.  The  game's  not 
worth  the  candle." 

"That's  not  proved  yet,"  said  Philip.  "I  'm  not 
going  down  to  the  oflSce  this  morning.  What  do  you 
want  to  do?" 

269 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"I  don't  know  anything  to  do,"  answered  the 
other,  dully. 

"Why  not  run  up  to  the  Bronx,"  proposed  Philip, 
"and  hang  around  the  Zoo?   I've  never  seen  it." 

Barry's  face  lightened.  "First-rate,"  he  said. 
"They  have  some  good  things  there.  The  bird-house 
is  superb.   I  have  n't  visited  it  but  once." 

The  morning  went  by  more  tharw  satisfactorily. 
Barry  seemed  to  become  more  and  more  himself. 
He  talked  volubly,  offering  a  thousand  curious  and 
interesting  comments.  He  was  in  his  element.  He 
discussed  the  relative  cranial  development  of  the 
various  anthropoids,  and  pointed  out  the  homologies. 
As  they  wandered  through  the  reptile-house  he  was 
insensibly  led  into  a  fascinating  disquisition  on  pro- 
tective coloration.  Later  he  developed  the  various 
theories  of  sexual  selection  in  birds,  and  while  they 
were  taking  lunch  at  an  obscure  dairy  restaurant  at 
West  Farms,  fell  into  a  long,  earnest  exposition  of  the 
problems  of  migration. 

Then,  of  a  sudden,  almost  between  sentences,  the 
shadow  fell  again  upon  him.  The  light  died  in  his 
eyes,  and  a  savage,  wolf-like  craving  peered  wildly 
out. 

"I  believe  I'm  mad,"  he  muttered,  through  lips 
that  were  white.  "I  could  kill  you  for  hanging  on  to 
me  Hke  this." 

Philip  shuddered  in  spite  of  himself  at  the  man's 
270 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


look  of  desperation.  He  doubted  whether  he  pos- 
sessed the  power,  after  all,  to  hold  that  ruthless  appe- 
tite in  check  much  longer. 

*^What  do  you  propose  to  do  now?"  demanded 
Barry,  harshly. 

"Go  home  and  play  chess,"  said  his  companion. 

"I  can't  play  chess,"  retorted  the  other,  defi- 
antly. 

"That's  nonsense,"  rejoined  Philip.  "Of  course 
you  can.  You  can  put  your  mind  on  it,  if  you  '11  only 
make  the  effort;  and  it'll  give  you  something  to  think 
about." 

"I'm  not  going,"  said  Barry.  "Go  along  yourself. 
You've  been  very  kind  to  me,  and  I'm  deeply  obliged. 
I'll  get  on  all  right  now  without  you." 

"Don't  be  a  fool!"  cried  Philip,  roughly.  "Are 
you  going  to  come  with  me,  or  not?" 

A  hunted  look  came  into  the  other's  eyes. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  'm  going  with  you,"  he  answered,  resent- 
fully submissive. 

They  reached  Mullin  Street  about  three  o'clock. 
There  was  a  letter  waiting  for  Philip  on  the  hall  stand. 
A  wave  of  dizzy  emotion  surged  over  him  at  the  dis- 
covery of  it. 

"Get  the  things  ready,"  he  said  to  Barry,  as  they 
reached  the  top  floor.  "I'll  be  with  you  in  a  minute 
or  two." 

He  dashed  into  his  room,  shut  the  door,  and  tore 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


open  the  envelope.  There  was  a  shimmering,  colourful 
mist  before  his  eyes.  He  leaned  against  the  door, 
holding  the  sheet  of  paper  in  both  hands,  for  steadi- 
ness, while  he  read  what  Katrinka  had  written.  It 
was  a  short  note,  very  simple,  altogether  like  her  in 
its  expression. 

"My  own  dear  Lippo,"  it  began.  "I  know  you  will 
not  be  so  cruel  as  to  let  those  last  words  of  yours  be 
our  good-by.  I  want  something  happy  to  remember 
for  the  end.  I  cannot  tell  you,  dear,  how  I  have  suf- 
fered all  this  long  week.  Oh,  how  can  you  be  so  hard, 
my  own  dear  boy,  to  your  poor  little  Katrinka,  who 
cannot  live  without  another  sight  of  your  dear  face. 
I  am  going  to  tell  myself  that  you  will  come  sure, 
sure,  Saturday  night.  Oh,  my  Lippo,  you  must  not 
stay  away  this  once." 

Delirious  longing  took  possession  of  him.  No,  it 
was  true,  he  could  not  stay  away.  He  must  go  to 
her ;  he  must  go  to  her,  this  once  —  this  once  more. 
He  crushed  the  perfumed  missive  to  his  lips.  He  was 
sick  for  her  caresses.  He  was  going  to  her. 

His  ear  caught  the  sound  of  a  creaking  board  in  the 
stairway.  Dread  leaped  into  his  mind.  He  flung 
open  the  door.  Barry  was  half-way  down  the  stairs, 
in  hat  and  coat. 

"Look  here!"  cried  Philip,  harshly.  "Where  are 
you  going?" 

The  man  gave  him  a  look  of  hate. 
272 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


"None  of  your  business,'^  he  retorted.  "I  go 
where  I  please." 

Philip  darted  to  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

"Come  back,  you  coward,"  he  commanded. 
"Are  n't  you  man  enough  but  you  must  sneak  away 
while  I'm  not  looking?" 

Barry  returned  a  defiant  gaze  into  the  flashing  eyes ; 
but  the  next  instant  the  defiance  disappeared,  and  a 
look  of  cowed,  sullen  submission  took  its  place. 
Silently  he  remounted  the  stairs  and  entered  his 
room.  Philip  followed  him.  It  was  a  quarter  past 
three. 

They  sat  down  at  the  chess-board.  They  played 
without  a  stop  until  half-past  six.  Philip  had  never 
fought  so  hard  in  his  life  as  during  those  hours.  He 
was  fighting  for  a  man's  soul.  He  knew  that  a  min- 
ute's relaxation  would  mean  defeat. 

At  half-past  six  he  proposed  that  they  forage  for  a 
bite  of  supper. 

"I  have  a  few  eatables  in  my  room,"  he  said,  "and 
you  can  make  some  coffee." 

He  went  to  the  speaking-tube  in  the  hall,  and  asked 
Victorine  if  she  could  spare  them  a  bowl  of  soup  and 
some  dishes. 

They  laid  out  the  meal  in  Philip's  room,  and  lin- 
gered over  it  until  eight  o'clock. 

"And  now,"  said  the  boy,  "how  about  that  rub- 
ber?" 

273 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


He  felt  as  if  the  words  were  choking  him.  Every 
desire  of  his  being  cried  out  in  wild  protest  against 
the  thing  he  was  so  calmly  proposing.  What  it  was 
that  made  him  utter  the  words  he  could  not  have  ex- 
plained. It  was  as  if  another  personality,  relentlessly 
determined,  implacable,  had  hypnotized  his  will.  He 
obeyed,  fighting  every  inch. 

Barry  consented,  dully,  and  they  returned  to  the 
chess-board.  Philip  knew  now  how  Barry  must  have 
felt  when  he  said  that  he  could  kill  him.  He  hated  the 
man  for  chaining  him  thus  to  an  ungrateful,  torturing 
pastime,  when  love  and  pleasure  and  beauty  were 
waiting  for  him  in  a  room  of  flowery  fragrance  and 
magic  light. 

He  heard  the  clock  downstairs  strike  eight-thirty, 
nine,  nine-thirty,  ten,  ten-thirty,  eleven.  With  lips 
tight  shut  and  beads  of  sweat  on  his  forehead,  he 
continued  playing,  while  every  now  and  then  black 
shadows  obscured  the  board  from  his  view.  And  for 
another  hour  two  human  souls  agonized  in  that  upper 
chamber,  wrestling  grimly,  death-grappled,  each  with 
his  demon  of  desire. 

The  little  clock  below  tinkled  out  midnight,  just  as 
the  fourth  game  was  completed.  Philip  put  his  hand 
suddenly  to  his  forehead,  sprang  to  his  feet,  reeled, 
and  fainted. 

In  an  instant  Barry  was  bending  over  him,  on  the 
floor.    He  loosened  the  boy's  collar,  lifted  him  ten- 

274 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


derly  to  the  cot,  applied  a  wet  towel  to  his  forehead, 
and  chafed  his  hands.  It  came  to  him  with  dismaying, 
humbling  force  that  he  had  not  suffered  alone.  Till 
that  moment  he  had  given  no  thought  to  his  compan- 
ion's state  of  mind.  He  had  not  noticed  the  killing 
tension  under  which  he  had  been  labouring.  His  own 
conflict  had  utterly  absorbed  him.  He  had  even 
cherished  a  weak,  peevish  hatred  against  him  for  his 
interference,  only  conscious,  at  the  instant,  that  he 
was  being  kept  back  from  the  thing  he  was  famished 
to  have. 

But  with  this  startling  flash  of  perception,  some  life- 
long, rigid  bar  in  his  heart  snapped  in  two.  He 
buried  his  rough  face  in  the  boy's  cold  hands,  and 
sobbed. 

Philip  opened  his  eyes  wonderingly,  saw  the  man 
kneeling  beside  him,  and  felt  the  hot  tears  on  his 
fingers. 

"Why,*'  he  said,  in  a  vague,  uncertain  voice,  "I 
did  n't  know  I  was  such  a  fool  as  all  this." 

Barry  looked  very  far  away  to  him,  although  he 
knew  that  he  was  by  the  bed,  holding  his  hand. 
Everything  danced  oddly. 

He  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  "Did  we  beat  'em,  old 
man?"  he  asked. 

Barry  was  patting  his  hand,  awkwardly. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  in  a  choked,  unnatural  voice, 
"we  did." 

27s 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Philip  blinked,  and  shut  his  eyes  again.  "Gee, 
but  I  feel  damned  funny!"  he  said,  faintly. 

"I'm  going  to  put  you  to  bed  right  away,"  as- 
serted Barry.  "You  have  gone  through  more  than 
your  share  to-day." 

Philip's  eyes  opened  in  vague  surprise.  "Why, 
how  did  you  know  about  that?"  he  inquired. 

"Well,  I  should  think  I'd  know,  if  anybody," 
declared  Barry,  with  a  smile. 

"I  never  knew  I'd  told  you  anything  about  her," 
said  Philip.  "I  didn't  think  anybody  but  myself 
knew  about  Katrinka." 

It  was  Barry's  turn  to  be  puzzled.  "Katrinka? 
No,  I  did  n't  know  about  that.  I  only  knew  about 
the  other  thing  —  the  way  you  stood  by  me.  Who 's 
Katrinka?" 

A  great  desire,  which  he  suspected  to  be  rather 
childish,  came  to  Philip  to  confide  in  his  friend.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  it  would  make  things  a  great  deal 
easier,  somehow,  now  that  it  was  all  over.  But  a 
certain  hesitation  —  a  doubt,  possibly,  as  to  the  deli- 
cacy of  such  a  confession  —  still  withheld  him. 

Barry  must  have  noticed  some  sign  of  the  repressed 
impulse,  for  as  he  unlaced  the  boy's  shoes,  he  said,  — 

"It's  hardly  fair,  do  you  think,  for  me  to  blab  out 
everything  about  myself  to  you,  and  for  you  to  be  so 
damned  close  with  your  own  affairs?" 

Philip  resisted  the  inclination  no  longer.  Half  an 
276 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


hour  after  he  was  in  bed,  covered  up  warmly,  and 
dosed  with  hot  lemonade  by  Barry's  insistent  hands, 
he  was  still  deep  in  the  story.  A  peace  which  he  had 
not  known  for  months  had  descended  upon  him  as  he 
proceeded,  a  gentle,  pleasant  lassitude,  a  deep,  quiet 
satisfaction  that  things  had  turned  out  as  they  had. 

Barry  sat  by  the  table,  smoking,  with  his  feet  on 
the  chair  opposite,  and  interrupting  every  now  and 
then  with  a  question  or  a  grunt  or  a  comment.  He 
found  it  difficult  to  believe  the  story  he  was  listening 
to.  He  had  not  once  suspected  the  fiery  conflict  that 
had  been  engrossing  the  boy's  strength  and  courage 
for  so  long.  It  seemed  very  wonderful  to  him  that  one 
could  suffer  like  that,  and  yet  remain  so  gentle  in 
spirit,  so  stanch  and  devoted  a  believer  in  the  valiant 
ideals  of  our  humanity. 

When  the  recital  was  over,  he  went  to  bed  himself. 
The  room  was  perfectly  dark  except  for  a  tremulous 
white  patch  that  the  street  lamp  below  threw  on  the 
ceiling. 

"It  was  out  of  friendship  for  a  nameless  drunk- 
ard," said  Barry,  'Hhat  you  forced  yourself  to  forego 
the  other  thing." 

"I'm  glad  I  stayed  home,"  said  Philip,  with  quiet, 
deep  conviction.  "I'm  glad  you  gave  me  the  chance. 
It  was  my  chance  to  win  out." 

He  felt  very  tired.  It  seemed  to  him  that  sleep 
would  come  soon  and  be  pleasant. 

277 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


"I  have  always  believed,"  said  Barry,  solemnly, 
*Hhat  the  more  closely  you  became  acquainted  with 
your  fellow -men,  the  less  you  respected  them.  I've 
always  seen  a  mask,  and  under  the  mask,  ugliness  and 
greed.  I  never  suspected  that  one  day  I  should  come 
to  reverence  a  human  being.  To-night  you  have 
brought  me  to  that." 

A  bo)dsh  sigh  of  comfort  and  fatigue  was  the  only 
answer.  The  next  instant  Philip  was  asleep. 


XXIV 

After  a  quiet  Sunday  of  rest,  reading,  and  good 
talk,  Philip  went  back  to  work  again  with  restored 
body  and  mind.  He  even  found  himself  looking  for- 
ward with  a  certain  pleasurable  curiosity  to  his  pro- 
mised supper  on  Smilax  Street.  But  an  event  of  far 
more  dramatic  significance  than  a  mere  supper  en 
famille  was  billed  for  special  performance  that  week. 

To  Irene,  Queenie,  and  himself.  Fate  committed 
the  leading  roles,  and  they  were  played  with  admir- 
able dash,  energy,  and  emotional  expression.  The 
story  is  as  follows :  — 

Philip  was  studying  Tuesday  evening  in  his  room, 
when  the  whistle  of  the  speaking-tube  summoned 
him  into  the  hall. 

"Hello,"  he  answered. 

Victorine's  voice  came  faintly  but  clearly  to  him 
from  regions  below. 

"Is  it  Monsieur  Philippe?" 

"Yes,  mademoiselle." 

"  There  is  a  young  person  in  the  front  hall  who  want 
much  to  talk  with  monsieur." 

"A  young  person?" 

"Mees  Muller,  of  the  Institute,  monsieur." 

"I'll  be  right  down." 

279 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


He  flung  off  his  lounging-robe,  donned  a  coat,  and 
precipitately  descended  the  stairs,  wondering  what  in 
the  world  could  bring  Irene  at  this  hour.  She  was 
standing  under  the  gas-jet  near  the  door,  her  small 
face  turned  upward,  pinched  and  drawn. 

*^0h,  Mr.  Wetherell!"  she  ejaculated,  tragically, 
before  he  had  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"Has  something  happened?"  he  demanded,  anx- 
iously. 

She  wrung  her  hands  and  brought  out  the  one 
poignant  word,  — 

''Queenie!" 

She  appeared  unable  to  say  anything  more  for  the 
time  being,  but  stood  there  staring  up  into  his  face 
with  an  expression  of  supplication.  Finally  she  seized 
his  hand,  and  pressed  it  mutely  between  both  of  hers. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  with  quick  sympathy.  "Has 
something  happened  to  her?" 

She  squeezed  his  hand  still  harder. 

"  Oh,  —  Mr.  Wetherell ! "  she  gasped.  —  "  Oh ! " 

Despite  the  vagueness  of  his  information,  it  was 
clear  enough  to  him  that  some  catastrophe  had  come 
to  pass.  His  imagination  was  quick  to  supply  shape 
and  substance  to  it. 

"Is  it  the  thing  you  were  afraid  of?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded,  blindly.  "Death  would  be  prefer- 
able!" she  declared. 

Her  words  had  the  unintentional  effect  of  allaying 
280 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


his  worst  fears.  If  Irene  could  so  well  remember  her 
footlights,  Queenie  could  not  yet  be  utterly  beyond 
the  reach  of  salvation.  He  subtly  contrived  to  release 
his  captured  hand,  and  seated  himself  on  the  bottom 
stair. 

^' You'd  better  sit  down,"  he  suggested,  indicating 
the  solitary  chair  against  the  wall. 

She  took  it  obediently,  pressing  one  hand  to  her 
bosom. 

'*  Oh,  I  Ve  flown  every  step  of  the  way,"  she  panted. 
"Heaven  grant  I  may  be  in  time!" 

*^Give  me  your  news,"  directed  Philip,  with  some 
peremptoriness. 

Irene  turned  wild  eyes  upon  him.  Her  broad  little 
nose  was  puckered  with  emotion. 

*^Run  away!"  she  announced,  with  an  accent  of 
high  tragedy.  —  "Our  little  Queenie!" 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  handkerchief  and  sobbed, 
unrestrainedly,  in  a  very  ecstasy  of  woe.  For  a  season 
Philip,  recognizing  the  futility  of  remonstrance,  held 
his  peace.  But  when  two  minutes  or  so  had  thus 
elapsed,  and  still  no  sign  appeared  of  a  shutting  of 
the  flood-gates,  he  ventured  diffidently  to  interfere. 

"We'll  never  get  anywhere  this  way,"  he  averred, 
robustly.  "You'd  better  stop  crying  and  think  about 
business.   How  long  ago  did  it  happen?" 

She  withheld  her  sobs  for  an  instant,  and  gazed  at 
him  through  swimming  eyes. 

281 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


'*It  ain't  hap-p-p-pened  y-y-y-yet,"  she  brought 
out,  chokingly. 

*^Well,  well,"  rejoined  Philip,  in  as  comforting 
accents  as  he  could  command.  ^^Then  there  must  be 
a  chance  of  preventing  it." 

Irene  gave  a  desolate  shake  to  her  small  head. 

"I  v^ish  to  Heaven  I  had  your  hopeful  disposition," 
she  said.  "  Seems  like  I  always  got  to  look  on  the  dark 
side  of  things." 

^Tome,"  said  Philip,  ^^f  you'll  tell  me  all  about 
it  at  once,  we'll  know  better  what's  to  be  done." 

"Oh,  that's  just  what  I  come  here  for,"  agreed 
Irene,  mopping  her  red  eyes,  and  making  a  rueful 
effort  to  smile.  '^I  says  to  myself,  'I'll  fly  to  Mr. 
Wetherell.  If  any  one  can  help  me  in  time  of  trouble, 
it's  him.'  But  oh,  —  oh,  —  I  was  'most  sick  for  fear 
you  would  n't  have  been  to  home.  I  don't  know  I'm 
sure  what  I'd  have  done  then." 

The  young  man's  ear  caught  the  sound  of  a  dis- 
creetly turning  door-knob  on  the  floor  above,  where 
the  redoubtable  Jenny  moved  and  had  her  being ;  and 
it  occurred  to  him  that  the  front  hall  was  not  the  pre- 
eminently suitable  place  for  so  intimate  a  conversa- 
tion. 

"Look  here,"  he  broke  in.  "Why  don't  I  run  up- 
stairs for  my  hat  and  overcoat?  We'll  take  a  little 
walk,  and  you'll  find  it  simpler  to  tell  me  about 
things." 

282 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"Oh,  that  would  be  just  lovely,"  she  said,  grate- 
fully. "I  think  I'd  feel  a  good  sight  more  at  my 
ease." 

He  had  got  up  to  go ;  but  she  detained  him  still  an 
instant,  with  an  outstretched  hand. 

"Say,  Mr.  Wetherell,"  she  asked,  rather  hesitat- 
ingly, "would  you  mind  tellin'  me  whether  my  face 
has  got  all  puffy  from  cryin'  so?" 

He  accorded  it  a  hasty  critical  scrutiny.  "A  little," 
he  admitted,  honestly.  "But  not  nearly  so  much  as 
the  first  time  I  saw  you.  Shall  I  bring  down  the  tal- 
cum powder?" 

"Oh,  I'm  afraid  it  would  be  too  much  trouble," 
she  answered,  with  a  look  of  longing.  "You're 
terrible  kind  to  suggest  it." 

Philip  denied  that  it  would  be  too  much  trouble, 
and  a  little  later  returned  with  the  useful  box.  In  five 
minutes  they  were  on  the  street.  She  seized  his  arm, 
after  her  wont,  and  they  turned  eastward  toward 
Greenwich  Avenue.  The  night  was  foggy  and  mild. 
Without  further  parley  Irene  plunged  into  her  tale. 

"It's  like  this,"  she  began,  in  a  strained,  rapid 
voice.  "I  did  n't  get  away  from  the  Institute  till  ter- 
rible late  to-night,  on  account  of  havin'  to  do  up  a  lot 
of  extra  typewriting  for  that  monster  of  a  Tibbs ;  and 
when  I  got  home,  ma  was  there  all  alone,  —  which 
was  only  what  I'd  expected,  seein'  it  was  'most  nine 
o'clock.   So  I  was  out  in  the  kitchen  huntin'  around 

283 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


for  something  to  eat,  when  ma  pipes  up  from  the  other 
room,  and  says,  — 

"'Little  Queenie  is  n't  coming  home  to  us  to-night 
after  the  theatre,'  she  says. 

"'No?'  says  I.   'And  why's  that?' 

"'Why,'  says  ma,  'Gertie  Beauchamp,  her  dear 
friend,  has  invited  little  Sunbeam  to  spend  the  night 
with  her.' " 

Irene's  hand  gave  a  quick  squeeze  to  her  escort's 
wrist. 

"Mr.  Wetherell,  do  you  know  anything  about  that 
Gertie  Beauchamp?"  she  asked,  raucously. 

"Enough,"  said  Philip,  "to  be  sure  it's  a  bad 
sign." 

" Oh !  —  that's  just  what  I  said  to  myself,"  went  on 
the  girl.  "But  though  I  was  'most  crazy  with  anxiety, 
I  did  n't  let  on  to  ma,  for  fear  she  'd  have  one  of  her 
hysterics,  and  I  could  n't  get  away.  So  all  I  done  was 
to  dash  on  my  hat  and  coat  and  come  along.  If 
Queenie  and  Gertie  Beauchamp  are  together  some 
place,  you  can  be  dead  sure  they  ain't  alone,  and 
oh,  —  " 

She  broke  off  with  a  little  gasp ;  and  they  proceeded 
a  few  steps  in  silence. 

"And  oh,  Mr.  Wetherell,  I'm  just  frightened  and 
worried  to  death.  I'm  sure  Queenie 's  been  prevailed 
on  at  last  by  some  of  their  fiendish  arguments.  I'm 
afraid  she's  not  going  to  hold  on  any  longer.  I  just 

284 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


seem  to  know  it  in  my  bones;  and  if  it's  true,  it  will 
kill  me  dead." 

Her  dread  was  only  too  fully  shared  by  the  man  at 
her  side. 

"Has  she  been  around  much  with  Gertie  lately?'' 
he  asked. 

"I  don't  know,  Mr.  Wetherell.  She  ain't  talked 
much  about  her.  She 's  been  awfully  sweet  and  nice  to 
home.  Oh,  I'm  afraid  it  was  all  a  blind.  I  was  too 
credulous.  And  yet  it  don't  seem  like  she  could  be 
capable  of  such  a  thing.  It's  just  those  miserable, 
wicked  men,  Mr.  Wetherell.  If  it  was  n't  for  the  men, 
Queenie  would  n't  never  think  of  goin'  wrong.  She 's 
so  easily  led,  that's  the  trouble.  I  just  know  in  her 
heart  she  don't  want  to  be  bad." 

"Have  you  hit  on  a  plan  of  campaign  yet?"  in- 
quired Philip. 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"That's  what  I  was  countin'  on  you  for,"  she  said. 
"I've  been  so  upset,  I  couldn't  seem  to  work  my 
grey  matter  at  all." 

"Well,"  said  Philip,  "the  first  step  is  plain  enough. 
We  must  find  out  whether  she's  at  the  show  to-night." 

They  took  the  Elevated  to  Thirty-third  Street; 
turned  up  into  the  glare  of  Broadway,  and  were  soon 
approaching  the  theatre,  in  front  of  which  an  enor- 
mous butterfly,  outlined  in  tiny,  rose-coloured  incan- 
descents,  was  slowly  fluttering  its  broad  wings. 

285 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


*' Let's  not  go  to  the  stage  door/*  said  Irene, 
cautioningly.  "She  might  find  out  some  one  had  been 
inquiring  for  her." 

Philip  purchased  two  balcony  seats,  far  back,  in 
M;  and  they  hurried  inside.  The  performance  was 
already  in  the  second  act.  The  stage  was  dark,  save 
for  a  mobile  circle  of  blue  moonHght,  in  the  centre  of 
which  Mellicent  Greeley,  the  star,  was  singing  her 
famous  waltz-song,  "Why  the  Lover  loves  the 
Moon.'' 

"Wait,"  whispered  Irene.  "The  chorus  comes  in 
at  the  end  of  the  verse.   Then  we'll  know." 

The  moonlight  followed  the  agile  singer  hither  and 
thither  about  the  stage  with  great  docility,  until  she 
finally  came  to  a  halt,  left  front,  clasped  her  hands, 
extended  them  with  yearning,  and  waited.  The  whole 
stage  suddenly  became  flooded  with  a  pale  blue  radi- 
ance ;  the  orchestra  played  a  few  connective  measures 
with  a  softly  pronounced  rhythm,  hung  on  the  final 
throbbing  note;  and  then,  from  the  wings,  entered 
a  tripping  procession  of  happy  lovers,  two  and  two, 
arms  affectionately  intertwined. 

Philip's  wrist  was  spasmodically  clutched. 

"Look!  Look!"  whispered  Irene,  dramatically. 
"It's  her!  Do  you  see?  —  next  to  the  head  of  the 
line.    That's  Gertie  in  the  lead." 

The  first  move  of  the  campaign  was  completed. 
What  next?    They  sat  there  until  the  performance 

286 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


was  nearly  over,  while  Philip  devised  various  schemes 
of  procedure,  and  dismissed  them  one  after  another 
as  preposterous.  It  came  to  him  finally  that  it  was 
perfectly  useless  to  make  plans.  They  must  be  ready 
to  take  whatever  cue  the  occasion  might  offer.  The 
one  thing  obviously  essential  was  to  keep  Queenie  in 
sight,  to  watch  all  her  movements. 

She  would  in  all  probability,  he  thought,  be  going 
out  to  supper  somewhere  with  Gertie  and  two  men  as 
soon  as  the  show  was  over.  If  it  was  true  that  Queenie 
had  determined  to  go  the  whole  figure  at  last,  he  felt 
confident  that  before  the  supper  was  over,  she  would 
be  a  little  frightened.  That  would  be  their  chance  to 
surprise  her.  Philip  dreaded  the  scene  which  his 
imagination  only  too  easily  conjured  up ;  but  this  was 
no  time  for  squeamishness,  and  he  hardened  himself 
against  it. 

"Let's  go  out,"  he  suggested  to  Irene,  shortly 
before  the  finale.   "I  want  to  talk  things  over." 

The  girl  had  forgotten  even  to  unbutton  her  coat, 
despite  the  heat  of  the  theatre.  She  jumped  to  her 
feet  with  electrical  abruptness,  and  they  made  their 
way  to  the  street.  He  took  her  into  a  drug-store,  and 
while  she  nervously  gulped  down  an  egg-chocolate, 
he  told  her  of  the  next  move. 

"I'm  going  to  engage  an  auto,"  he  said.  "We'll 
wait  near  the  stage  door;  and  when  they  come  out, 
we'll  follow  them.    We've  got  to  act  cautiously. 

287 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


There's  nothing  to  be  gained  by  rushing  things.  It 
may  be,  you  know,  that  we're  mistaken." 

"If  we  only  was!"  she  exclaimed.  "But  oh,  I 
know  we  ain't!" 

Irene  had  reached  the  supremely  dramatic  moment 
of  her  eighteen  years.  She  could  scarcely  speak  for 
excitement.  Philip  put  her  into  a  taxicab,  and  gave 
brief  directions  to  the  chauffeur.  He  found  some  grim 
comfort  in  the  memory  that  he  had  a  week's  pay 
snugly  tucked  away  in  his  wallet. 

They  took  up  a  position  not  far  from  the  stage 
entrance,  which  was  located  on  a  side  street ;  and  the 
door  of  the  cab  was  left  open  for  the  sake  of  unob- 
structed view.  The  crowds  had  begun  to  pour  out 
of  the  second-balcony  entrance  close  by. 

"Oh, — oh!"  gasped  Irene,  almost  beside  her- 
self. "How  much  longer  do  you  think  it  will  be, 
Mr.  Wetherell?" 

In  less  than  ten  minutes  the  stage  door  began  to  be 
very  busy.  Women,  closely  mufBed  in  evening  capes 
and  filmy  scarfs,  tripped  out,  escorted  often  by  men 
in  opera  hats,  who  saw  them  into  waiting  cabs, 
entered  after,  and  were  driven  into  the  rush  of  Broad- 
way. Now  and  then  a  girl  would  come  out  alone, 
glance  up  and  down  the  street,  lift  her  skirts,  and  turn 
into  the  brilliant  thoroughfare.  Sometimes  a  friend 
would  be  waiting  in  the  shadow,  and  quietly  join  her. 
The  stage-hands  and  chorus-men  came  out,  two  and 

288 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


three  together,  laughing  boisterously  over  some  inci- 
dent of  the  evening. 

Suddenly  Irene  caught  her  breath.  "Look !  —  Oh ! 
—  There  they  are!" 

A  party  of  four  had  crossed  the  sidewalk  and  were 
entering  a  handsome  closed  car.  Philip  gave  the  word 
to  the  chauffeur,  and  they  were  under  way,  close  behind 
their  quarry. 

Irene  held  her  hands  rigidly  clenched  in  her  lap. 

"Oh,  you  don't  think  he'll  lose  sight  of  them, 
do  you,  Mr.  Wetherell?  I  think  I  would  never  get 
over  it." 

They  turned  up  Broadway  and  crawled  slowly, 
with  many  delays,  northward.  Philip's  mind  was 
rapidly  running  over  the  various  possible  destinations 
of  the  big  green  car  ahead ;  but  one  by  one,  as  they 
left  Forty-second  Street,  and  then  Fifty-ninth  Street, 
and  then  Sixty-sixth  Street  behind,  the  number  was 
reduced,  until,  by  the  time  they  were  crossing  the 
Harlem  Viaduct,  he  was  completely  at  a  loss.  What 
could  it  mean? 

Still  the  green  car  sped  northward.  Clearly  it  was 
bound  out  of  town.  With  horror  Philip  realized  that 
the  chase  he  had  so  confidently  undertaken  might 
lead  him  fifty  miles  —  very  possibly  more  —  up  state. 
The  snug  little  sum  in  his  wallet  dwindled  pitifully  in 
his  dismayed  estimation. 

"Oh,  where,  where  can  they  be  taking  her?" 
289 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


wailed  Irene,  through  teeth  that  chattered.  ^'I'm 
dead  sure  we  can't  keep  up  with  them  much  longer; 
and  it's  so  foggy  you  can't  hardly  see  a  thing  ahead.'^ 

Philip  set  his  teeth  hard  and  resigned  himself  to  the 
worst.  They  were  speeding  along  a  deserted  stretch  of 
the  Boulevard,  somewhere  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Point  Washington,  when  he  became  abruptly  aware 
that  the  machine  was  slowing  down.  In  another  mo- 
ment they  had  come  to  a  halt.  He  opened  the  door 
and  peered  out. 

^'There's  some  sort  of  a  breakdown  across  there," 
said  the  driver  with  a  curt  gesture. 

Through  the  blanketing  mist,  vaguely  illumined 
by  a  sputtering  street-light,  Philip  discerned  the  dark 
bulk  of  the  green  car,  and  the  figure  of  a  man  kneel- 
ing in  front  of  the  cylinders. 

^^This  is  our  chance,"  he  muttered  to  the  trembling 
girl  at  his  side.   "Are  you  game?" 

"Y-y-y-yes,"  she  returned,  scarcely  able  to  utter 
the  word.   *^I  am." 

"Stay  here,"  he  directed,  "until  I've  spoken  to 
them." 

He  leaped  out,  and  crossed  the  street  to  the  green 
car.  Without  addressing  a  word  to  the  chauffeur,  he 
approached  the  door,  and  gave  a  peremptory  rap  on 
the  panel. 

There  was  a  little  burst  of  exclamations  from  inside, 
and  then  a  man's  face  appeared  at  the  glass. 

290 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


^'Well,"  he  said.   "What's  wanted?" 

"I  want  to  speak  to  Miss  Queenie  MuUer,"  an- 
nounced Philip. 

His  ears  detected  a  smothered  '^Oh!"  which  he 
seemed  to  recognize,  and  which  reassured  his  failing 
confidence. 

The  door  was  flung  open,  and  a  large,  rather  fat 
man,  with  a  heavy  black  moustache,  made  a  quick 
descent. 

"Who  the  devil  are  you?"  he  demanded.  He  was 
evidently  very  angry. 

"A  friend  of  Miss  MuUer's." 

"There's  no  Miss  MuUer  in  there,"  retorted  the 
man.  "If  you'll  take  my  advice,  you'll  mind  your 
own  business." 

"This  is  my  business,"  cried  Philip,  with  an  oath. 
"I'll  take  no  lies  from  any  one.  I  know  she's  in 
there,  and  I  intend  to  speak  to  her." 

His  fists  were  clenched  for  a  fight.  He  would  have 
loved  to  knock  the  man  down.  He  was  confident  he 
could.  Another  word  of  provocation,  and  he  would 
have  tried  it. 

But  before  the  man  could  respond  to  his  challenge, 
Philip  became  aware  of  a  clutch  at  his  arm. 

"And  this,"  declared  the  voice  of  Irene,  loudly, 
and  shrill  with  excitement,  "this  is  Queenie  Muller's 
sister,  who  has  the  right,  if  any  one  in  the  world,  to 
speak  to  her.  I  demand  to  see  her  at  once." 

291 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


She  advanced  a  step  toward  the  black  moustachio. 
"Back  from  the  door,  I  say!" 

The  man  looked  considerably  astonished  at  being 
so  impressively  addressed;  but  he  did  not  offer  to 
move.  At  the  same  instant  there  was  a  cry  from  be- 
hind the  closed  door;  again  it  flung  open,  and  a  figure 
closely  muffled  in  a  white  fur  cloak  leaped  to  the 
ground.  It  was  Queenie,  hysterically  sobbing. 

The  man  wheeled  upon  her  with  a  snarl  of  anger 
and  disgust.  "Here,  you!  Don't  make  a  fool  of  your- 
self.   Get  back  inside." 

He  seized  her  by  the  shoulders,  and  was  roughly 
shoving  her  backwards,  when  Philip  landed  him  a 
staggering  blow  on  the  side  of  the  head. 

"You  dirty  scoundrel!"  he  cried.  "Take  your 
hands  off  her." 

The  man  reeled  over  against  the  car,  clutching  the 
rim  of  the  rear  wheel  to  save  himself. 

"Ow!"  he  ejaculated. 

He  turned  toward  Philip,  and  made  a  slight  placat- 
ing gesture.  "I  say,"  he  brought  out,  "don't  do  that, 
you  know!" 

Philip  was  so  astounded  at  this  reception  of  his 
violence  that  he  could  find  nothing  to  say  for  a  few 
seconds.  An  absurd  desire  to  break  out  laughing  came 
to  him. 

Meanwhile  Irene  had  stretched  forth  her  arms  with 
a  sob  of  yearning  affection  toward  her  sister. 

292 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"Queenie!"  she  cried.  *' Little  Queenie!  We've 
come  to  take  you  home!'' 

The  next  instant  they  were  fast  locked  in  each 
other's  arms.  Hats  were  knocked  sadly  awry  by  the 
loving  collision;  but  no  note  was  taken  of  that  by 
either  of  them. 

'^Oh,  take  me  home,"  moaned  Queenie.  "I'm 
frightened.   I  want  to  go  home." 

"You  shall  go  home,"  sobbed  Irene,  thumping  her 
sister's  back  violently.  "They  shan't  take  you  away: 
no,  they  shan't.   So  there!" 

In  the  midst  of  his  excitement,  Philip  found  time 
to  be  thankful  that  they  were  upon  an  almost  deserted 
highway,  veiled  by  a  kindly  fog.  Several  automobiles 
had  passed  them,  flying  northward;  otherwise  there 
had  been  no  external  interruptions  to  the  engrossing 
scene  that  was  being  enacted.  He  found  himself 
wondering  whether  this  were  real  life  at  all,  so  per- 
fectly did  it  answer  all  the  requirements  of  melo- 
drama :  the  heroine  and  her  sister  sobbing  profusely 
in  each  other's  arms ;  the  black-moustachioed  villain 
looking  on  in  cowed,  angry  silence,  while  the  hero  — 
Philip  felt  a  little  ill  at  ease  in  the  noble  role  —  stood 
by  with  clenched  fists  and  flashing  eyes,  ready  to  de- 
fend at  cost  of  life  and  limb  the  sanctity  of  the  home 
and  the  honour  of  the  innocent. 

But  the  chauffeur  of  the  green  car  crawled  out 
from  under  the  cylinders,  where  he  had  been  lying, 

293 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


face  upward,  for  several  minutes;  threw  a  couple  of 
tools  into  the  tool-box;  readjusted  the  hood,  and 
jumped  to  his  seat. 

''All  ready,  sir,"  he  announced. 

Another  masculine  voice  called  from  the  interior 
of  the  car,  — 

"Well,  Roily,  if  she's  goin'  to  be  such  a  puss,  you'd 
better  let  her  go.  Come  an'  get  in.  I  know  where  we 
can  fill  her  place  quick  enough." 

The  villain  snorted  and  produced  a  volley  of  oaths. 

"Look  a-here,  Queenie,"  he  ejaculated.  "Don't 
be  a  sniveUing  baby.  Come  along.  You're  keeping 
everybody  waiting." 

Queenie  released  herself  from  her  sister's  embrace 
and  faced  him  with  tearful  defiance. 

"You  can  wait  till  to-morrer  for  all  I  care,"  she 
asserted,  between  sobs,  with  a  dramatic  wave  of  one 
hand.   "I'm  a-goin'  home." 

"I  thought  you  was  a  better  sport  than  that,"  de- 
clared Roily,  contemptuously.  "If  I'd  known  you 
was  going  to  renig  right  in  the  middle  o'  the  game,  do 
you  think  for  a  minute  — " 

The  rest  was  lost  upon  the  retreating  trio.  The  taxi- 
cab  had  already  been  headed  for  home  by  the  diplo- 
matic chauffeur.  Queenie  was  half  shoved,  half  lifted 
into  it  by  her  devoted  sister ;  Philip  exchanged  a  brief 
word  with  the  chauffeur,  then  entered  hastily  himself, 
drew  the  door  shut,  and  they  were  off. 

294 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


The  sisters  promptly  fell  into  a  renewal  of  their 
sobs  and  embraces.  For  a  long  time  nothing  was  said. 
The  lights  of  the  city  began  to  flash  into  view  more 
numerously,  more  brilliantly.  Again  they  fled  across 
Sherman  Square,  under  the  Elevated;  then  the  mid- 
night flamboyance  of  Columbus  Circle,  with  its  rim 
of  restaurants  and  cafes,  burst  upon  them.  They 
turned  down  Eighth  Avenue. 

"Will  ma  —  forgive  —  me,  —  too?"  asked 
Queenie,  brokenly. 

"Ma!  Oh,  gee!"  exclaimed  Irene,  in  dismay.  "I 
forgot  all  about  ma.  She'll  be  stark  crazy  wonderin' 
whatever  has  become  of  me." 

"Why,  did  n't  she  know  what  you  was  ninnin'  off 
for?" 

"No,  I  never  says  a  word.  I  just  clapped  on  my 
duds  and  hit  the  trail  for  Mullin  Street." 

"Cheese!"  said  Queenie,  aghast.  "Ma '11  be  in 
fits,  sure.  What '11  you  tell  her?" 

Irene  shook  her  head  in  momentary  despair. 

"She'll  see  we've  been  bawlin',"  added  Queenie. 

The  other  contradicted  her  stoutly.  "No,  she 
won't.  Mr.  Wetherell  's  got  some  powder  in  his 
pocket.  Here,  I'll  do  your  face,  and  then  you  can 
take  a  try  at  mine." 

By  the  time  they  reached  Smilax  Street,  the  ravages 
of  emotion  had  been  considerably  repaired ;  hats  had 
been  set  straight,  and  veils  readjusted. 

295 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"You'd  never  guess  a  thing,  would  you,  Mr. 
Wetherell?"  demanded  Irene;  and  Philip  assured 
her  that  he  never  would  in  the  world. 

"But  what  are  we  goin*  to  tell  her?"  persisted 
Queenie,  nervously. 

"That's  just  what  I'm  givin'  my  mind  to,"  replied 
her  sister.  "We  can't  tell  her  the  truth,  because  it 
would  bring  on  a  palpitation,  sure." 

Queenie  had  the  inspiration.  "I  know  what!" 
she  cried,  joyfully. 

But  a  sudden  sh)mess  seemed  to  hold  her  back. 

"What  is  it,  dearie?" 

"If  Mr.  Wetherell  would  n't  mind,"  parried 
Queenie,  timidly. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  sure  he  would  n't.  Would  you,  Mr. 
Wetherell?" 

"Oh,  no,  not  at  all,"  replied  Philip,  loyally. 

"I  thought,"  said  Queenie,  "you  could  tell  her 
Mr.  Wetherell  had  asked  you  to  invite  me  to  go  for 
an  auto  ride  with  him  to-morrow  afternoon,  and  you 
thought  you  'd  ought  to  tell  me  about  it  to  once  so  that 
I  would  n't  be  makin'  some  other  engagement." 

"Oh,  that's  just  fine!"  cried  Irene.  She  grasped 
the  cue,  and  hurried  on  with  the  narrative.  "So 
when  I  got  to  the  theatre,"  she  supplied,  "I  found 
that  poor  Gertie  was  terrible  sick;  and  we've  been 
lookin'  after  her  together  ever  since,  takin'  her  to  the 
hospital,  and  all  that,  you  know." 

296 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


*^It's  sort  of  a  whopper,"  said  Queenie,  dubiously. 

"It's  because  we  love  her  so,"  responded  Irene, 
sententiously.  "We  would  spare  her  from  needless 
suffering." 

"And  if  she  does  think  we've  been  cryin',  it'll  be 
because  we  was  both  so  terrible  worried  about  poor 
Gertie,"  added  Queenie.  "And  of  course  that 
knocked  out  the  invitation  for  to-morrow  afternoon. 
But  just  the  same  it  was  awful  kind  of  Mr.  Wetherell 
to  ask  me ;  and  I  '11  be  very  glad  to  accept  some  other 
time." 

"That's  good,"  said  Philip,  properly. 

Queenie's  thoughts  had  suddenly  been  deflected. 
"Say,  I  wonder  what  Gertie  '11  say  to  me  to-morrow 
night.  She '11  be  sore  as  a  goat.  Well,  I  don't  know  as 
I  blame  her." 

At  the  door  of  the  tenement  they  left  him. 

Irene  wrung  his  hand  adoringly.  "I  won't  ever  for- 
get it,  Mr.  Wetherell,  as  long  as  I  live!" 

Queenie  also  wrung  his  hand.  "I  never,  never  can 
thank  you  half  enough,"  she  declared,  humbly.  "It's 
you  and  Reny  that  have  saved  me." 

Her  words  lingered  in  his  mind  as,  alone  in  the 
now  historic  taxicab,  he  was  borne  swiftly  homeward. 

"  Saved  her ! "  he  repeated  to  himself,  with  a  cynical 
amusement  that  was  strangely  mingled  with  pity  and 
doubt.   "  Saved  her ! "  —  Yes,  till  when  ? 


XXV 

Winter  had  again  manacled  the  hill-country.  Its 
glittering  spears  were  hung  along  the  lofty  eaves  of 
Highstone.  The  vines  of  the  porch,  outside  the 
Colonel's  window,  were  sheathed  in  brittle  armour. 
It  was  the  bitter  season's  last  battle  for  supremacy. 

Colonel  Raeburn's  chamber  was  very  quiet.  The 
March  afternoon  was  nearing  dusk.  The  fire  in  the 
wood-stove  crackled  softly.  In  a  neighbouring  apart- 
ment steps  could  be  heard  going  to  and  fro.  There 
was  no  other  sound  in  the  great  house.  The  Colonel 
lay  as  motionless  in  his  bed  as  if  wrapped  in  profound 
sleep;  but  he  was  wide  awake. 

His  hollow  eyes  stared  fixedly  at  the  high,  water- 
stained  ceiling.  There  was  an  expression  in  them  of 
unspeakable  melancholy.  The  expression  rarely  left 
them  nowadays.  It  seemed  to  indicate  a  dreary  pre- 
occupation of  spirit ;  it  had  become  an  obsession. 

Persistent,  unrelieved,  tyrannically  engrossing,  it 
had  wrung  his  daughter's  heart  a  thousand  times 
during  the  past  months.  She  had  grown  afraid  of  it. 
It  was  an  alien,  hostile  thing  that  had  taken  her 
father  in  thrall.  He  was  no  longer  himself.  He  was 
dying  —  she  had  learned  to  endure  that  thought 
with  fortitude  and  resolution;  but  he  was  dying 

298 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


under  a  blighting  cloud  of  misery  and  despair  which 
she  could  not  understand,  and  which  cruelly  vitiated 
for  her  all  the  daily  offices  of  love.  Once  her  devotion 
had  brought  her  an  incalculably  rich  reward ;  of  late, 
though  she  could  not  bear  to  confess  it  to  herself,  she 
felt  in  it  only  the  contagion  of  her  father's  gloom. 
She  could  not  shake  it  off.  She  found  herself  con- 
stantly hungering  for  fresh  air  and  the  solitude  of 
open  country,  freedom  at  any  cost  for  a  little  time 
from  the  haunting  presence.  In  such  brief  hours  of 
release  she  regained  courage  to  return  to  duty  with  a 
smile. 

At  the  sound  of  a  door  shutting  heavily  the  Colonel 
turned  his  head  slightly  on  the  pillow  and  breathed  a 
profound  sigh.  He  reached  out  his  emaciated  hand 
to  the  little  bell  that  stood  on  the  chair  by  the  head  of 
the  bed,  and  rang  it.  A  woman  of  advanced  middle 
age  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"Did  you  ring?''  she  asked. 

"I  thought  I  heard  some  one  coming  in,"  said  the 
Colonel,  feebly. 

"It  was  the  stable-boy.  He  came  for  the  milk- 
pail." 

"Did  she  say  how  long  she  expected  to  be  out?" 

"No.  She  spoke  of  taking  a  short  walk,  I  think. 
She  said  she  was  a  little  tired  and  wanted  some  exer- 
cise. I  dare  say  she'll  be  back  any  minute  now." 

The  Colonel  sighed  again. 
299 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"Is  there  anything  you  want?"  suggested  the 
woman,  kindly. 

"You  might  bring  me  a  little  glass  of  water,  Min. 
There  isn't  anything  else." 

She  disappeared.  The  Colonel  pressed  his  hand  to 
his  forehead  as  if  to  allay  some  throbbing  pain,  and 
in  the  solitude  a  low  groan  escaped  his  lips. 

"I  must  tell  her  to-night,"  he  muttered,  dully. 
"She  can  go  to-morrow.  The  next  day  she  will  be 
back  again." 

Aunt  Min  returned  with  the  water,  and  lifted  his 
head  while  he  took  a  sip  of  it.  The  Colonel  was  quite 
helpless.  He  did  not  chafe  any  longer  against  staying 
in  bed. 

"Thank  you,  Min,"  he  said.  "And  when  she 
comes,  please  tell  her  I  wish  to  see  her." 

"She  always  comes  directly  to  your  room,"  replied 
the  woman,  as  she  left  him.  "But  if  I  see  her  first,  I 
will  tell  her." 

Again  silence  fell.  The  Colonel  was  painfully  in- 
tent upon  the  passing  of  the  minutes.  How  slow  the 
time  went  by!  How  long  it  seemed  since  Georgia 
had  gone  out!  She  must  be  taking  a  very  long 
walk. 

He  shivered.  The  thing  he  had  to  say  to  her  lay 
like  a  cold,  crushing  weight  on  his  heart.  How  could 
she  bear  it  ?  Would  it  be  the  end  of  her  love  for  him  ? 
He  had  tried  to  tell  her  before,  and  she  had  frightened 

300 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


him  silent,  with  her  pleading  words,  and  her  look  of 
solicitude  and  adoration.  He  had  not  had  the  courage 
to  go  on. 

But  it  could  be  no  longer  put  off,  now;  else  he 
might  die  with  the  curse  on  his  soul.  He  might  die 
any  minute.  He  might  die  even  before  Georgia  came 
home.  Death  had  knocked  imperatively  at  his  door 
only  three  days  before,  and  had  scarcely  been  per- 
suaded to  delay  still  a  little  longer.  The  Colonel  had 
prayed  God,  with  agonizing  supplication,  that  a  few 
days  might  still  be  granted  him.  To-day  he  felt  well 
enough  to  say  what  must  be  said.  The  moment  had 
come. 

The  front  door  opened,  and  Georgia  entered  the 
house.  He  heard  her  lay  off  her  wraps  in  the  hall; 
counted  the  seconds  while  she  gave  the  rearranging 
touch  to  her  hair  before  the  tall  mirror  under  the 
staircase ;  shivered  as  her  steps  finally  approached  his 
chamber. 

^^  How's  the  father?"  she  inquired,  with  a  gentle 
lightness  of  manner  which  she  never  permitted  to 
desert  her.  **Did  he  get  a  little  nap?" 

He  answered  her  in  a  feeble  negative.  How  beau- 
tiful she  was,  he  thought,  how  proudly  self-confident, 
how  faultlessly,  splendidly  loyal  in  her  devotion  to 
him.  A  tall,  gracious  flower  she  seemed  to  him, 
shedding  beauty  and  perfume  in  the  garden,  tragi- 
cally unconscious  of  the  whirlwind  about  to  sweep 

301 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


upon  it  and  which  would  fell  its  proud  crest  to  the 
earth. 

"I'm  going  to  change  your  pillow,  daddy,"  she 
said.  "I  have  a  nice  fresh  one  here  that  will  feel  good, 
I  know." 

She  slipped  her  hand  gently  behind  his  shoulders, 
lifted  him,  and  deftly  made  the  substitution. 

"There,"  she  said.  "And  now  would  you  like  me 
to  light  the  lamp?" 

"No,  not  quite  yet,  Georgia.  Shut  the  door,  will 
you,  and  sit  down.  Sit  there  by  the  window,  will  you, 
not  too  close  to  me." 

The  girl  obeyed  him  silently,  enveloped  by  a  strange 
dread.  She  felt  that  some  terrible  crisis  was  lying  in 
wait,  just  behind  the  trembling,  half-transparent  bar- 
rier of  the  minutes. 

The  sick  man  sighed  drearily.  "I  have  not  long  to 
live,  Georgia.  I  do  not  know  how  long;  but  I  have 
besought  God  in  his  mercy  to  spare  me  until,  with 
your  help,  I  have  lightened  my  spirit  of  the  curse  that 
has  blasted  it.  Will  you  strive  to  remember,  while  I 
discover  to  you  the  blackness  and  great  darkness  of 
my  soul,  that  the  man  who  addresses  you  is  already 
sealed  with  death,  and  that  if  anguish  and  torments 
of  spirit  can  in  any  sort  atone  for  sin,  he  has  paid  the 
price,  lo,  these  many  years?  —  Will  you  strive  to 
remember  that,  Georgia?" 

"I  will,"  she  answered,  faintly. 
302 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


*^Do  you  recall  the  occasion  of  Philip  WetherelPs 
last  visit  in  this  house  —  the  night  before  Thanks- 
giving?" 

"I  do.   I  remember  it  very,  very  distinctly." 

**Will  you  open  the  top  drawer  of  the  dresser  and 
take  out  the  letter-box  that  Hes  on  the  left-hand  side  ?  " 

Mechanically  she  obeyed. 

"Will  you  open  the  box  and  remove  the  crumpled 
sheet  of  paper  that  lies  on  top?" 

She  followed  his  direction. 

"Do  you  recognize  it?" 

She  stepped  to  the  high  window  for  additional 
light.  A  low,  smothered  cry  escaped  her. 

"It  is  the  man  who  lived  in  the  next  room  to  him," 
she  exclaimed. 

"It  is  my  son." 

She  made  no  movement.  An  icy,  death-like  hand 
seemed  to  have  glided  up  her  spine,  freezing  sense. 
She  understood  nothing.  A  blank,  white  silence  in- 
vaded her  mind. 

"I  —  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said,  at 
last,  in  a  weak,  puzzled  voice.  "I  can't  seem  to  un- 
derstand very  well." 

She  put  damp  fingers  to  her  forehead,  and  tried  to 
think  clearly.  What  had  her  father  said?  "My 
son"?  But  he  had  no  son.  Her  brother  had  died 
thirteen  years  ago.  There  had  been  no  other  children. 

In  the  silence  she  heard  herself  babbling  foolishly. 
303 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


"Arthur  is  dead,  father,"  she  was  repeating. 
''Arthur  is  dead.  He  died  thirteen  years  ago  next 
month.  He  was  only  twenty-one  years  old.  Even  if 
he  were  living,  he  would  not  be  so  old  as  this  man. 
There  must  be  some  mistake." 

With  limbs  that  quailed  oddly  under  her,  she  re- 
turned to  the  dresser  and  replaced  the  crumpled  sheet 
of  paper,  noting  mechanically  for  the  first  time  that 
its  edges  had  been  charred.  She  remembered  that 
Philip  had  thrown  it  upon  the  hearth. 

"This  man,"  rejoined  her  father,  in  a  pitiless, 
desolate  voice,  "is  the  offspring  of  sin.  He  does  not 
bear  my  name.   But  he  is  my  own  child." 

Georgia  leaned  weakly  against  the  tall  dresser.  She 
remembered  her  father's  groans  in  the  dead  of  night. 
She  remembered  the  momentary  seizure  he  had  had : 
—  ah,  it  was  just  as  they  had  been  talking  of  this  man. 
She  had  attributed  it  to  fatigue  and  excitement. 

"Are  you  sure?"  she  asked,  still  staving  off  the 
ultimate  fact. 

The  man  in  the  bed  groaned.  "Utterly,"  he  re- 
plied. "  Philip  offered  details  which  put  the  truth  of  it 
beyond  a  peradventure." 

"What  details?"  she  demanded.  "I  do  not  re- 
member any." 

"That  he  was  a  naturalist.  That  he  was  born  in 
Maryland.  That  he  was  singularly  reticent  as  to  the 
facts  of  his  history." 

304 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


^'I  do  not  make  anything  of  all  that,"  said  the 
girl. 

**I  have  told  you  this  much,  only  that  I  might 
tell  you  more,"  responded  the  Colonel.  "If  you 
will  sit  down  again,  I  will  not  keep  you  long  in 
suspense." 

She  resumed  her  chair.  The  room  was  nearly  dark. 
She  turned  her  face  toward  the  window,  and  gazed 
out  upon  the  heavy,  ice-hung  vine,  and  beyond,  into 
the  shadows  that  had  gathered  densely  under  the  tall 
trees. 

"Do  you  recall  what  occurred  to  me  after  the 
battle  of  Antietam?" 

"To  be  sure  I  do,"  she  replied,  with  strained  volu- 
bility. "You  had  a  slight  flesh-wound  of  which  you 
said  nothing.  When  the  regiment  was  transferred  to 
the  heights  above  Harper's  Ferry,  you  marched  with 
your  company.  On  the  way  you  fainted;  and  they 
left  you  at  a  tumbledown  httle  farmhouse.  You  were 
sick  there." 

He  interrupted  her.  "There  were  two  persons  in 
the  family." 

"An  old  woman,"  she  supplied,  dully,  "named 
Granny  Creeling,  and  her  daughter,  Judy." 

"  Judy  Creeling  was  the  mother  of  my  son." 

There  was  a  long,  crushing  silence.  Georgia  felt  as 
if  the  soul  had  suddenly  been  torn  out  of  her  and  flung 
into  a  pit  of  quaking  darkness.   Why  —  this  was  a 

305 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


story  she  had  repeated  a  thousand  times.  It  had  been 
among  her  most  precious  possessions.  The  names  of 
Granny  Creehng  and  her  daughter  had  come  fluently, 
gKbly  from  her  Hps  since  early  girlhood.  Ah,  —  and 
after  all,  —  it  was  nothing  but  a  story  of  shame.  Was 
all  the  nobility  of  life  nothing  but  a  story  of  shame  ? 
Was  there  nowhere,  then,  the  honour  and  integrity  of 
soul  she  had  always  so  proudly  imputed  to  her  life's 
idol?  All  her  life  she  had  worshipped  at  this  shrine 
—  worshipped  there  the  more  proudly,  the  more  in- 
veterately,  when  everything  else  had  failed  her  —  and 
now,  the  shrine  was  empty.  A  death's-head  grinned 
at  her  from  the  altar  whereon  she  had  lavished  the 
choicest  offerings  of  her  heart's  devotion. 

But  the  dreary  voice  from  the  bed  was  going  on. 

*^She  was  a  broad-spoken,  illiterate  country  girl, 
with  a  sort  of  florid  beauty  that  came  from  work  in 
the  hayfields  and  the  garden.  When  I  began  to  get 
better  of  my  fever,  her  mother  left  me  entirely  to 
her  care,  while  she  was  away,  often  for  entire  days  at 
a  time,  with  a  load  of  vegetables.  We  were  both 
young;  once  the  thought  had  awakened  in  us,  there 
was  no  putting  it  out  of  mind.  I  do  not  know  whether 
repentance  ever  came  to  her  or  not ;  I  know  that  to 
me,  thenceforth,  from  that  day  of  sin,  my  life  was 
accursed.  When  I  found  out,  after  my  return  to  camp, 
what  fruit  our  guilt  was  to  have,  I  resolved  that  I 
would  number  myself  among  those  slain  in  battle. 

306 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


For  three  years  I  courted  death,  flung  myself  upon 
it,  —  only  to  be  remanded,  at  last,  to  a  life  that  has 
been  a  living  death :  a  slow,  incurable  mortification  of 
the  soul.  God  willed  that  I  should  be  punished  by 
my  life." 

"Did  mother  know?"  asked  Georgia,  in  a  voice 
that  had  sternly  subjugated  pain  and  horror. 

"I  never  told  her.  Till  this  moment  I  never  told 
any  one.  But  I  think  she  knew.  She  said  something 
in  her  delirium  that  led  me  to  believe  that  she  had 
known  it  for  a  long  time,  and  kept  silent." 

Georgia  shuddered  and  buried  her  face  in  her" 
hands,  making  no  sound.  There  were  no  tears  in  the 
emotion  that  racked  her.  It  was  dry,  cruel,  irrepa- 
rable —  a  general  uprooting  of  all  that  she  had  most 
honoured  and  cherished. 

The  darkness  had  deepened  in  the  lofty  apartment. 
She  suddenly  threw  back  her  head  and  stretched  out 
her  arms  with  a  gesture  of  hopelessness  and  barren 
sorrow.  But  her  lips,  opened  to  a  cry  of  anguish,  gave 
no  audible  betrayal  of  what  destruction  the  whirl- 
wind had  wrought.  Very  quietly  she  asked,  — 

*'What  happened  to  Judy?" 

"I  never  saw  her  again.  For  years  I  sent  money  to 
the  old  woman  for  her.  Then  I  found  out  that  Judy 
had  married  and  gone  somewhere  up  the  Shenandoah. 
The  old  woman  had  been  using  the  money  for  liquor. 
The  boy,  who  had  been  left  with  her  by  Judy,  had 

307 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


run  away,  and  for  years  I  could  get  no  track  of  him. 
It  was  not  until  eighteen  ninety-five,  when  I  saw  in  a 
newspaper,  among  the  number  of  those  who  had  been 
accorded  degrees  at  his  university,  the  name  of  John 
Creeling,  that  I  knew  whether  he  were  alive  or  dead. 
I  did  not  know  then  whether  it  were  truly  he  or  not. 
The  inquiries  I  made  convinced  me.  That  was  the 
year  Arthur  died." 

The  girPs  eyes  burned  and  tingled  with  dryness. 
She  shuddered  at  the  knowledge  of  what  her  father 
had  suffered ;  but  there  was  no  pity  in  her  breast. 
He  had  wrought  the  iniquity:  he  had  yielded  the 
penalty.  What  lighter  fate  could  he  have  asked  for 
or  desired? 

''From  that  time,"  pursued  the  Colonel,  in  the 
same  monotonous  voice  of  hopelessness,  "I  watched 
his  every  movement.  My  only  son !  With  what  pride 
and  with  what  agony  of  shame  I  followed  his  pro- 
gress, always  secretly,  always  in  silence,  disguising 
my  purpose.  He  was  a  briUiant  scholar ;  an  audacious, 
atheistical  thinker,  reverencing  nothing,  unloved  by 
his  fellows,  but  universally  admired  for  his  superior 
intellectual  gifts.  I  found  his  picture  in  a  magazine, 
cut  it  out,  and  put  it  away  under  lock  and  key,  not 
daring  to  be  found  with  it,  because  of  the  resemblance 
it  betrayed  to  my  own  face.  Six  years  ago  he  was 
appointed  to  an  assistant  professorship  out  west.  I 
heard  a  rumour  that  he  was  drinking  heavily.  Then  he 

308 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


disappeared.  The  theory  was  that  he  had  committed 
suicide.  That  was  three  years  ago.  Do  you  remember 
the  name  Philip  called  him  by?" 

"No,"  answered  the  girl,  apathetically.  —  "Mur- 
ray? Mowbray?" 

"Barry,"  said  her  father,  "John  Barry.  He  is 
evidently  living  in  deliberate  obscurity.  I  have 
thought  that  perhaps  he  might  be  seeking  to  reha- 
bilitate himself.  Philip  told  us  he  worked  in  some 
laboratory.  I  know  nothing  beyond  that.  I  did  not 
see  Philip  again.  I  have  been  too  ill  to  set  on  foot 
any  inquiries." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  The  room  had  grown 
chilly.  The  girl  rose,  with  a  shiver,  to  her  feet,  and 
lighted  the  lamp.  She  opened  the  stove-door,  and 
threw  in  two  or  three  pieces  of  wood.  Her  movements 
were  perfectly  automatic. 

The  man  in  the  bed  uttered  a  groan.  —  "  Georgia." 

"Yes,  father?" 

"Do  you  know  why  I  have  made  all  this  confession 
of  shame  to  you  after  so  many  years  of  silence  ?  " 

She  gazed  at  him  vaguely.  "No,  —  no,  —  I  had 
not  thought  of  that,  yet." 

"Do  you  recall  what  I  asked  you  to  bear  in  mind 
while  I  spoke  to  you?" 

"Yes,  father." 

"Does  it  make  no  difference  in  your  feeling?" 

Her  mind  groped  blindly  for  an  answer.   "It  only 

309 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


makes  it  all  seem  the  more  terrible.  Perhaps  it  does 
something  besides  that.  I  don't  feel  sure  yet." 

The  Colonel  groaned  again.  ^^ Georgia!  Daughter  1 
Have  you  no  pity?  Have  you  no  softness?  Is  there 
naught  of  woman  in  your  heart  ?  Do  you  desire  me 
to  enter  into  my  grave  with  the  curse  still  upon  my 
soul?'' 

''What  can  I  do  to  take  it  off,  father?"  she  asked 
in  an  altered  voice.  "You  must  know  I  would  help 
you  if  I  could." 

By  a  relentless  effort  of  will  she  was  holding  herself 
from  yielding  to  paroxysmal  sobs.  She  felt  all  the 
wild,  primal  impulses  of  woe  in  her :  to  tear  her  hair, 
to  shriek  aloud,  to  rend  her  garments,  to  fling  herself 
upon  the  ground.  But  she  sat  quite  motionlessly  in 
her  chair,  making  no  sound,  while  her  fingers  played 
vaguely  with  the  chain  of  her  watch. 

"  My  son  is  in  New  York.  We  know  where  he 
lives." 

"You  want  me  to  get  some  word  to  him?" 

"I  want  you  to  go  to  him  and  beg  him,  on  your 
knees,  to  forgive  me.  I  must  have  his  forgiveness 
before  I  die.  I  cannot  die  without  it.  This  is  my 
last  request  of  you,  Georgia." 

She  rose  and  readjusted  the  wick  of  the  lamp.  She 
made  an  effort  to  speak;  but  her  tongue  refused  to 
move.  She  swallowed  hard,  and  made  another  effort. 

"When  do  you  want  me  to  go?" 
310. 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


''I  want  you  to  go  to-morrow  morning  by  the  early 
train.  You  will  not  need  to  be  away  but  for  one  night. 
You  will  bring  me  word  the  second  day.  You  will  tell 
me  that  he  has  granted  me  his  forgiveness." 

*'I  will  go,"  she  said,  quietly.  "I  will  do  the  best 
I  can." 


XXVI 

She  reached  the  city  early  in  the  afternoon.  She 
went  directly  to  a  quiet  hotel  on  Irving  Place,  where 
some  years  before  she  had  stayed  for  several  days  with 
her  father.  Since  then  she  had  not  been  in  New  York, 
and  the  roar  of  its  traffic,  the  flux  and  confusion  of  its 
heedless  multitudes,  enhanced  her  feeling  of  solitude 
and  helplessness.  The  errand  upon  which  she  had 
been  sent  appalled  her.  She  was  totally  unquaHfied 
for  it.  In  vain  she  sought  words  for  the  fateful  inter- 
view. The  shadowy  spectre  of  the  man  she  was  to 
face  —  to  kneel  to  —  stood  ever  in  her  mind  and  put 
rational  thought  to  flight. 

Her  plan  was  to  go  first  to  Mullin  Street,  and  from 
his  landlady  to  secure  his  business  address.  It  was 
well  after  three  o'clock  before  she  reached  the  house. 
Economy  had  restrained  her  from  hiring  a  convey- 
ance. More  than  once  she  had  lost  her  way  in  the 
network  of  irregular  streets  west  of  Greenwich  Avenue, 
and  had  been  compelled  to  soHcit  the  good  offices  of 
policemen.  She  was  very  tired.  At  last  she  espied  the 
sign  of  the  New  York  Institute  of  Auto -health.  As 
she  mounted  the  steps,  an  unbidden  thought  flashed 
into  her  mind  and  made  the  hand  tremble  that 
reached  for  the  bell-pull.  This  was  where  Philip  lived  1 

312, 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


She  waited  a  short  while,  two  minutes,  possibly, 
and  rang  again.  She  heard  the  sharp,  impetuous 
summons  of  the  bell  far  in  the  interior  of  the  house ; 
but  it  was  not  answered.  Her  heart  sank  within  her. 
She  tried  a  third  time. 

A  window  opened  in  the  Institute,  and  a  young 
woman  with  a  pug  nose  and  a  pompadour  thrust  out 
her  head. 

"I  guess  there  ain't  nobody  to  home,"  she  ob- 
served, sympathetically. 

Georgia  turned  a  hopeless  look  upon  her.  *^I 
wanted  to  see  the  landlady,"  she  said. 

The  girl  in  the  window  surveyed  her  pale,  high- 
bred face  with  interest. 

"You  mean  Mademoiselle?"  she  asked.  "Oh, 
she 's  Hkely  to  be  in  and  out  all  through  the  day.  You 
just  ring  the  basement-bell,  and  I  guess  one  o'  the 
old  folks  '11  let  you  inside  to  wait." 

Georgia  thanked  her,  and  observed  her  direction, 
while  the  pompadour  looked  on  with  friendly  solici- 
tude. 

"She  so  rarely  has  any  visitors,"  she  explained, 
affably.   "I  suppose  that's  why." 

After  a  brief  delay  the  basement-door  was  slowly 
opened,  and  a  very  aged  man  appeared  behind  the 
grating. 

"Ees  it  something  de  lady  desire?"  he  inquired, 
in  a  thin,  quavering  voice. 

3^3 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


*^I  wanted  to  see  the  landlady,"  replied  Georgia. 

"De  landlady?  But  dat's  my  daughter,  mees.  She 
ain't  at  her  home  just  now.  She  gone  off  some  place ; 
I  don'  know  when  she  be  back  again." 

He  seemed  about  to  withdraw  into  the  house  with 
a  vague,  apologetic  smile,  when  the  pompadour  in- 
terrupted. 

"It's  only  some  little  errand  or  other,  ain't  it?" 

The  old  man  advanced  his  wrinkled  face  till  it 
touched  the  grill,  and  peered  upward. 

"Good-day,  mees!  Yes,  mees.  Some  little  errand. 
I  t'ink  she  want  some  chicoree  for  the  salade.  She 
might  be  home  any  time.  She  don'  tell  me  about 
dat." 

"Well,  you'd  better  let  the  young  lady  in,"  advised 
the  girl.  "She  can  sit  down  and  get  warm.  Say,  it 
certainly  is  cold  as  the  dickens,  ain't  it  ?  —  Yes,  sir, 
right  away!" 

The  last  remark,  in  a  very  different  tone  of  voice, 
seemed  to  have  been  addressed  to  some  one  inside. 
She  shut  the  window  abruptly  and  disappeared. 

The  old  man  put  out  a  shaking  hand  to  the  knob, 
and  opened  the  gate  a  little  crack,  with  a  look  of 
immense  caution. 

"  My  Victorine  tell  me  not  to  let  nobody  inside ;  but 
I  don'  t'ink  she  know  a  fine  young  lady  would  ring  de 
bell." 

With  some  diflSculty  and  considerable  inward  hesi- 

3H 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


tation  Georgia  passed  through  the  narrow  aperture 
afforded,  and  entered  the  dark  basement-hall. 

^^Mademoiselle  will  like  to  come  in  and  get  warm ? " 
he  asked,  with  diffident  hospitality.  **My  old  woman 
and  me,  we  be  all  alone.  I  don'  t'ink  Victorine  care 
very  much  if  you  come  in  de  kitchen.'' 

He  led  her  dodderingly  into  the  rear  apartment, 
where  an  old-fashioned  range,  set  deep  under  the 
chimney-hood,  displayed  many  ruddy  chinks.  A 
most  savoury-smelling  kitchen  it  was,  spotlessly  clean, 
floor,  table,  and  sink  attesting  to  much  vigorous 
scrubbing.  The  girl  did  not  at  once  notice  a  tiny, 
white-capped  old  woman,  deep-buried  in  the  recesses 
of  a  padded  arm-chair  in  the  corner. 

"Dis  be  my  ole  wife,  mees.  We  come  from  the  ole 
country,  us,  —  Rouen,  mees.  Was  you  ever  hear  talk 
of  Rouen  ?  It  is  a  city  ver'  magnifique." 

The  old  woman  had  risen,  and  made  a  quaint 
little  curtsy. 

"  Mademoiselle  will  tak'  a  seat,  yes  ?  "  she  said,  in  a 
chirping,  friendly  voice. 

Upon  a  sudden,  grateful  impulse  Georgia  drew  a 
chair  beside  her  and  sat  down.  Something  of  the 
dread  that  crushed  her  seemed,  for  the  moment,  to  be 
lifted  by  the  gentle,  unaffected  cordiality  of  her  recep- 
tion. Beside  the  old  maman's  chair,  in  front  of  the 
gleaming  range,  with  its  softly  humming  kettle,  shut 
off  even  from  the  sounds  of  street-traffic,  she  had  the 

315 


ENCHANTED    GROUND 


sense  of  being  secure,  for  a  little  interval,  from  the 
terrors  that  preyed  upon  her.  It  was  like  one  of  the 
fleeting  spaces  of  sunshine  and  warmth  that  some- 
times come  in  the  midst  of  a  day  of  low-hung,  tem- 
pestuous clouds. 

A  yellow  kitten  with  a  green  ribbon  round  its  neck 
rose  from  the  hearth,  where  it  had  been  napping, 
stretched  itself,  and  walked  noiselessly  across  the 
room,  rubbing  familiarly  against  her  skirts.  She 
picked  it  up  and  caressed  it,  delighting  in  its  soft, 
responsive  purr. 

"Well,  well,"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  who  was 
looking  on  with  interest  from  his  chair  beside  the 
stove,  "how  it  be  true,  hein,  as  they  tell,  that  a  hani- 
mal  know  his  friends.  When  our  Victorine  come  in  — 
pouf !  —  ze  kitty  always  run  off  some  place." 

"Do  you  know  our  Victorine,  mees?"  inquired 
Susanne. 

"No,  I  do  not,"  she  replied.  "But  I  have  heard  of 
her."  The  words  brought  her  an  odd  little  pang  as 
she  uttered  them. 

"There  is  a  woman  for  you!"  asserted  the  papa 
Victor.  "Wonderful  for  keeping  the  house ;  a  veritable 
marvel  to  cook;  always,  always  making  her  econo- 
mies. —  But  she  is,  perhaps,  a  little  too  severe, 
sometimes." 

He  affirmed  the  criticism  with  a  dogged  nod  or 
two,  while  he  took  a  small  pinch  of  snuff. 

316 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


^*Ah,  but  you  are  too  ready  to  find  fault,  my  Vic- 
tor," put  in  Susanne,  soothingly.  "Torine  is  very 
good  to  the  old  ones.  What  do  you  expect,  then,  my 
man?  Life  is  not  easy.  You  must  have  a  little 
patience." 

^^Nevertheless,  she  might  not  refuse  to  let  me  go  to 
the  corner  for  a  little  glass,  sometimes.  Even  at  my 
age,  I  could  enjoy  that." 

Susanne  sighed,  resignedly,  offering  no  protest.  To 
change  the  subject  was  more  profitable  than  to  argue. 

"And  again,"  she  went  on,  with  a  confiding  look 
at  the  girl  beside  her,  "our  Torine  cannot  endure 
hanimals.  I  do  not  know  however  Monsieur  Philippe 
persuade  her  to  keep  dis  cat.  It  was  sick  once ;  but 
now  it  is  well." 

"  I  know  how ! "  said  the  old  man,  sagaciously.  "  He 
persuade  her  wiz  money.  Victorine  cannot  refuse 
dat." 

"Monsieur  PhiHppe  has  a  love  for  his  animals  of 
the  most  devote,"  pursued  Susanne,  sociably.  "He 
is  a  very  nice  young  man." 

The  papa  Victor  interrupted  with  an  air  of  au- 
thority. "Mademoiselle  does  not  know  Monsieur 
Philippe,  my  Susanne.  You  are  talking  about  things 
she  cannot  understand.  That  is  not  the  way." 

Susanne  turned  a  humble,  apologetic  look  upon 
the  guest. 

"You  must  excuse  a  poor  old  woman,"  she  said, 

317 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


plaintively.  ^^I  do  not  remember  very  well.  Mon- 
sieur Philippe  has  been  so  kind  to  us,  you  see.  He 
give  me  this  lovely  rosary  for  the  Christmas." 

She  fumbled  for  her  treasure  in  a  pocket,  and  dis- 
played it  proudly.  ^^  Monsieur  Philippe  is  the  kindest 
young  man  I  ever  know.  Even  Victorine  confess  dat." 

The  girl  had  bent  her  face  down  close  to  the  kitten's 
silky  fur.  Its  gentle  purring  did  not  cease.  She  felt 
the  warmth  of  its  body  through  her  clothing.  An 
emotion  of  longing  which  she  had  no  power  to  repress 
flooded  over  her. 

In  the  presence  of  the  new,  pitiless,  heart-slaying 
disillusion,  the  shattering  of  her  life's  idolatry,  the 
offence  that  he  had  committed  against  love  seemed 
curiously  unimportant,  almost  trivial,  to  her.  It  was 
the  first  time  such  a  thought  had  been  admitted  to 
her  mind. 

She  was  quick  to  realize  what  had  evoked  it :  her 
loneliness,  her  helplessness.  She  reproached  herself 
for  it.  Because  she  was  in  trouble,  because  life  had 
led  her  within  the  doors  of  its  charnel-house  and 
displayed  to  her  the  livid  horrors  concealed  there, 
now  she  would  forget !  But  the  nature  of  his  offence 
was  in  no  wise  altered.  If  she  had  condemned  him 
for  it  once,  when  she  was  strong,  what  excuse  other 
than  weakness  could  she  offer,  were  she  now  to  relent 
toward  him  ?  Weakness  and  humbled  pride  —  were 
these  arguments? 

318 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


She  raised  her  head  again,  and  occupied  her  hands 
in  rebuttoning  a  glove ;  but  she  did  not  put  the  little 
visitant  from  her.  It  still  lay  there  contentedly  in  her 
lap,  looking  up  at  her  with  grave,  inexpressive  eyes. 

"I  t^ink  I  hear  our  Torine,"  said  the  old  papa, 
suddenly,  as  there  came  a  rattle  at  the  basement- gate, 
outside. 

"I  mus'  go  let  her  in,"  he  added,  getting  to  his  feet 
and  making  what  halting  speed  he  could  out  of  the 
room. 

"Oui,  —  oui,  ma  fille,"  he  called,  quaveringly. 
"  Je  viens.   Me  voila ! " 

The  kitten  jumped  abruptly  from  Georgia's  lap 
to  the  floor,  and  sought  the  shelter  of  the  dark  hall. 
Susanne  nervously  set  her  cap  a  little  straighter,  and 
sat  forward  in  her  chair,  in  an  attitude  of  expectancy. 

^'Now  you  are  going  to  see  our  Torine,"  she  whis- 
pered. "I  hope  she  will  not  be  severe  with  the  poor 
papa." 

Georgia  heard  some  low  words  interchanged  at  the 
gate ;  and  then  Victorine  entered.  Before  she  could 
say  anything,  the  girl  had  risen  and  made  her  apology. 

"I  trust  that  I  have  not  done  wrong  in  intruding  so 
unceremoniously,"  she  said.  *'  But  I  was  most  anxious 
to  see  you  as  soon  as  possible." 

Victorine  nodded,  without  smiling.  ^'I  under- 
stand," she  rejoined.  ^'And  what  is  it  I  can  do?" 

Her  disposition  was  clearly  not  of  the  most  cordial. 

319 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


She  did  not  sit  down,  nor  even  remove  her  gloves, 
Georgia  also  remained  standing.  The  two  aged  ones 
sat  silent,  with  rather  guilty  looks,  in  their  chairs. 

"I  have  a  very  important  communication,"  said 
Georgia,  "to  make  to  Mr.  John  Barry,  who,  I  under- 
stand, lodges  with  you.  I  came  here  to  secure  from 
you,  if  you  would  be  so  kind  as  to  give  it,  his  business 
address." 

"But  I  do  not  know  it,"  retorted  Victorine,  coldly. 
"I  do  not  know  anything  about  Monsieur  Barry.  I 
have  not  the  least  idea  of  his  business." 

Georgia  could  scarcely  credit  her  ears.  She  had 
counted  upon  this  first  step  as  the  easiest  and  most 
secure  of  all.  But  if  she  could  not  go  to  him,  what 
was  there  left  but  to  wait  for  him  to  come  to  her? 
Philip  might  come,  too.  He  might  find  her  waiting. 
Dismay  seized  her  at  the  mere  thought  of  such  an 
encounter. 

"Ah,"  she  cried,  "then  you  cannot  help  me?" 
There  was  an  unintentional  accent  of  supplication  in 
her  voice. 

Victorine  studied  the  girl's  face  skeptically.  She 
had  her  opinion  of  unknown  young  women  who  came 
to  the  door  with  inquiries  after  men-lodgers.  Even 
the  Httle  cry  that  had  escaped  her  at  the  discovery  of 
Victorine's  inability  to  be  of  service  was  susceptible 
of  a  certain  interpretation. 

The  girl  had  an  intimation  of  the  ground  of  the 
320 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


other^s  hostility.  She  saw  that  she  must  say  more,  or 
lose  everything. 

"I  have  come  to-day,"  she  said,  appealingly,  ^^from 
my  home  in  Connecticut,  over  a  hundred  miles  away, 
to  bring  Mr.  Barry  a  message  from  my  father,  who  is 
dying.  It  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  I  have  pro- 
mised my  father  to  see  him.  And  to-morrow  I  must 
return  to  his  bedside." 

The  appeal  was  not  lost  upon  Victorine.  The 
noble,  candid  beauty  of  the  girl's  face,  and  the  look 
of  desperation  in  the  deep  eyes  completed  the  con- 
quest. 

"Indeed,  mademoiselle,"  she  responded,  ''if  I  had 
the  address,  I  would  give  it  to  you.  But  I  have  not. 
What  then  ?  —  I  will  tell  you  what  I  will  do.  Mon- 
sieur Barry  always  comes  home  at  quarter  past  five 
every  night.  I  will  be  listening  for  him,  and  will  tell 
him  a  message  from  you.  Mademoiselle  is  doubtless 
at  a  hotel  in  the  city?" 

The  girl  nodded.  "But  I  am  afraid  he  would  not 
come  to  me,"  she  said.  "He  does  not  know  who  I  am. 
He  has  never  seen  me." 

"No?" 

Victorine's  small  eyes  opened  wide  in  an  astonish- 
ment that  was  not  without  a  revival  of  suspicion. 

"I  cannot  explain  to  you,"  said  Georgia,  beseech- 
ingly. "I  must  ask  you  to  trust  me.  I  must  wait 
here  until  he  comes." 

;  321 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


"No  one  shall  say,"  asserted  Mademoiselle,  "that 
Victorine  La  Bergere  is  not  ready  to  help  those  in 
trouble.  I  will  do  what  I  can  for  you." 

"Ah,  dat  is  good,  my  Torine,"  put  in  the  old  Su- 
sanne.  "I  am  sure  you  will  not  be  sorry  for  dat.  Life 
is  not  too  easy  for  any  of  us.  We  must  do  what  we 
can." 

"I  suppose  you  wish  to  see  Monsieur  Barry  alone  ?  " 
asked  Victorine,  meditatively. 

"I  must  see  him  alone." 

"I  have  not  any  sitting-room,"  explained  Made- 
moiselle. "Upstairs,  in  the  extension,  I  have  a  little 
room  for  sleeping.  There  is  nothing  else.  I  think  it 
would  be  decent,  if  you  did  not  object." 

"Oh,  you  are  kind,"  exclaimed  Georgia,  reckless 
of  everything  except  the  opportunity  afforded.  "It 
will  do  perfectly,  I  am  sure." 

"You  will  be  waiting  there,"  said  Victorine.  "And 
when  he  arrives  I  will  send  him  to  you." 

Georgia  wrung  the  woman's  hand  gratefully.  "I 
shall  never  forget  this  act  of  generosity,"  she  said. 

The  old  Victor  had  risen  from  his  chair,  and  came 
forward  with  some  ceremony  to  wish  her  farewell. 

"Good  chance,  mees!"  he  said,  with  a  bow  that 
had  in  it  a  pathetic  reminder  of  the  grand  days  of 
the  Cafe  Antoine.  "You  will  still  find  the  happy 
times." 

She  went  quickly  to  the  old  maman,  and  took  her 
322 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


shrivelled  little  hand,  a  bird's  claw,  in  her  own. 
Susanne  looked  up  wistfully  into  her  face. 

"It  is  a  mission  that  the  good  God  approve, 
mees?''  she  asked. 

Georgia  nodded,  blindly. 

Susanne  lowered  her  voice  to  a  timid  whisper.  "I 
am  going  to  say  a  rosary  to  your  intention.  Perhaps 
that  will  help,  who  knows?" 

The  girl  could  make  no  reply.  She  gave  a  quick 
pressure  to  the  small  hand,  and  darted  from  the  room 
after  Victorine. 

She  was  led  up  a  narrow,  dark  flight  of  stairs,  and 
shown  into  a  rear  chamber.  Mademoiselle  lighted 
the  gas. 

*^It  is  all  I  have,"  she  said.  "I  am  sorry." 

She  hid  away  a  pair  of  bed-slippers,  drew  a  screen 
in  front  of  the  washbowl,  and  straightened  the  heavy, 
quilled  counterpane  on  the  four-post  bed  in  the  corner. 

"And  now,"  she  said,  "I  am  going  to  leave  you. 
You  will  not  have  very  long  to  wait,  —  half  an  hour, 
perhaps.  I  will  be  watching  for  him,  I  promise  you." 

Without  waiting  for  any  further  words  of  gratitude, 
she  quitted  the  room. 

The  girl  sat  down  in  a  narrow,  high-backed  chair, 
by  the  wardrobe,  facing  the  door.  Her  mind  was  a 
chaos,  in  which  a  single  fact  stood  out  with  preter- 
natural definiteness :  that  at  the  end  of  a  half  hour, 
perhaps  sooner,  perhaps  later,  the  door  would  open, 

3^3 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


and  the  man  would  be  standing  before  her.  How  he 
would  contemn  her  when  he  learned  her  business! 
What  means  had  she  of  appealing  to  him?  What 
reasons  could  she  urge  in  behalf  of  her  strange  re- 
quest ? 

None !  None !  She  could  only  throw  herself  upon 
his  pity.  She  could  only  humble  herself  before  him, 
suing  like  a  criminal  for  mercy.  She  had  always 
prided  herself  upon  the  rationality  of  her  relations 
with  others.  She  had  been  scrupulous  to  yield  what 
they  might  rightfully  expect  from  her.  She  had 
demanded  from  them  only  what  she  had  a  right  to 
demand. 

She  was  now  about  to  demand  a  boon  which  was 
completely  outside  the  high  pale  of  justice.  Argu- 
ments could  not  help  her.  There  were  none.  She 
was  unsupported.  Her  mind  groped,  and  lost  itself, 
in  this  ahen,  dim-lighted  territory  where  reason  must 
be  left  behind.   She  was  very  frightened. 

She  heard  a  clock  upstairs  tinkle  out  five  strokes. 
Fifteen  minutes  more!  Then  the  door  would  open. 
The  spectre  would  be  on  the  threshold.  She  would 
have  to  speak.  Her  mind  was  vacant  and  staring. 
She  grasped  the  arms  of  the  chair  with  damp  fin- 
gers, and  waited. 


XXVII 

At  twenty  minutes  after  five  Barry  entered,  closing 
the  door  behind  him.  He  had  not  taken  off  his  faded 
overcoat.  His  slouch  hat  hung  in  one  hand. 

"You  wished  to  speak  to  me?" 

His  question  was  put  in  a  perfectly  matter-of-fact 
tone.  There  was  no  look  of  surprise  or  curiosity  in  his 
haughty  features;  but  he  fixed  an  intentive,  undevi- 
ating  scrutiny  on  the  girl's  face,  which  almost  put  to 
rout  her  courage.  At  the  first  sight  of  him  she  seemed 
to  know  that  her  mission  would  be  in  vain. 

She  rose  from  her  chair,  holding  lightly  to  the  back 
of  it  with  fingers  that  trembled.  Her  first  words  had 
been  given  her  by  her  father. 

"Professor  Creeling?''  she  asked. 

She  did  not  fail  to  note  the  almost  imperceptible 
start  and  recoil,  instantly  controlled,  that  caught  him 
at  the  name.  He  smiled  deferentially. 

"I  fear  there  must  have  been  some  error,"  he  re- 
plied. "I  was  informed  that  you  wished  to  see  Mr. 
Barry.  Miss  La  Bergere  evidently  misunderstood." 
He  bowed  with  unrelaxed  dignity,  and  turned  to 

go- 

"Mr.  Barry,"  she  called,  with  an  arresting  gesture, 

"it  was  indeed  you  for  whom  I  made  inquiry.  I  bring 

3^S 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


you  a  request  from  a  man  who  lies  on  his  death-bed. 
You  will  not  refuse  to  listen  to  me." 

He  faced  her  again.  She  detected  a  shght  stiffening 
of  his  neck  and  shoulders. 

"You  speak  very  strangely,"  he  observed.  "I  do 
not  know  any  man  who  could  have  death-bed  favours 
to  ask  of  me." 

"Colonel  Raeburn,  of  the  Grand  Army  of  the 
Republic." 

She  named  the  regiment  of  Connecticut  Volunteers 
in  which  he  had  held  his  commission. 

"I  know  nothing  of  any  such  man,"  responded 
Barry,  coolly. 

"Until  after  the  battle  of  Fredericksburg  his  rank 
was  that  of  captain." 

Again  Barry  shook  his  head,  tapping  his  knee 
impatiently  with  the  crown  of  his  hat. 

"After  the  battle  of  Antietam,"  went  on  the  girl, 
in  a  voice  scarcely  above  a  whisper,  yet  unnaturally 
distinct,  "during  a  fever,  he  was  cared  for  in  a  small 
farmhouse  that  stood  on  the  line  of  march  to  Harper's 
Ferry." 

A  slight,  sudden  lifting  of  the  hands  was  the  only 
sign  he  gave  of  having  understood  her. 

"A  house  that  belonged  to  an  old  woman,"  he 
supplied,  in  a  cold  voice. 

She  nodded.  "An  old  woman  and  her  daughter 
were  the  only  inhabitants." 

226 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"Well,  and  what  is  your  message  to  me?"  he  de- 
manded, as  if  desirous  of  making  a  peremptory  dis- 
position of  the  affair  in  hand. 

"My  father  is  dying.  For  forty-five  years  he  has 
suffered  the  tortures  of  remorse  and  shame.  He  has 
sent  me  to  you  to  beg  your  forgiveness.  He  cannot 
die  without  it." 

"Cannot?"  retorted  her  auditor.  "That  is  too 
bad." 

"Surely,"  she  cried,  "you  cannot  wish  to  make  his 
sufferings  still  more  terrible  by  refusing  this  boon." 

"May  I  inquire,"  asked  Barry,  ignoring  her  re- 
monstrance, "how  it  comes  about  that  after  these 
forty-five  years  of  paternal  pangs,  he  happens  to  be 
informed  of  his  dearly  beloved  son's  address?" 

"I  am  prepared  to  tell  you  everything,"  replied  the 
girl,  simply.   "Shall  we  sit  down?" 

She  resumed  the  high-backed  chair. 

"No,  thank  you,  I  don't  care  to  sit  down,"  he 
rejoined.  "But  you're  quite  welcome  to  do  so." 

He  locked  his  hands  behind  him,  and  began  pacing 
back  and  forth  from  one  end  to  the  other  of  the  room. 
Every  now  and  then  he  would  abruptly  halt  at  one 
limit  of  his  confine,  lean  for  a  few  seconds  against  the 
wall,  and  cross  his  arms  haughtily  in  front  of  him,  his 
head  thrown  back.  During  the  course  of  her  long 
recital,  he  made  no  comment. 

She  told  him  how  her  father,  for  years  after  Judy's 
327 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


marriage,  had  continued  to  send  sums  of  money  to 
the  old  woman  for  the  child,  until  he  learned  of  the 
boy's  flight.  She  told  of  his  futile  efforts  to  get  a 
clue  to  his  son's  whereabouts,  and  of  his  final  redis- 
covery of  him,  through  the  newspaper  item.  She 
dwelt  with  impassioned  volubility  upon  the  yearning 
interest  with  which  he  had  secretly  followed  his  career, 
of  the  pride  he  had  felt  in  his  brilliant  success,  and  of 
the  dismay  with  which  he  had  learned  of  his  strange 
disappearance. 

*^He  assumed,  as  the  rest  did,  that  you  had  taken 
your  own  Hfe,"  said  Georgia. 

She  had  talked  rapidly,  breathlessly,  whipped  by 
excitement.  She  had  the  cruel  intuition  that  she  was 
failing  utterly,  that  she  had  made  no  slightest  im- 
pression upon  his  sympathies.  The  arrogant  back- 
ward thrust  of  his  head,  the  undisguised  curl  of  the 
lip,  the  cold,  unrelenting  gaze  of  the  dark  eyes, 
brought  to  her  soul  terror  and  despair.  Her  words 
seemed  to  be  sent  out  against  an  unhearing,  stony 
barrier.  They  fell  back  upon  her,  faint,  ineffectual, 
stricken  with  death. 

"As  winsome  a  tale  as  one  could  ask  to  hear," 
observed  Barry  icily,  with  crossed  arms,  as  she 
paused.  "Courage,  and  nobility,  and  a  sensitive 
regard  for  honour  and  justice  —  how  admirably 
Colonel  Raeburn's  history  exemplifies  all  these!" 

The  girl  rose  hotly  to  his  taunt.  "You  shall  not 
328 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


assail  his  character!''  she  cried.  "I  grant  you  that 
it  bears  this  single  dark  stain;  but  aside  from  that,  it 
is  the  noblest,  truest,  bravest  character  in  the  world. 
My  father  was  worshipped  by  his  subordinates  in  the 
army;  he  was  accorded  the  United  States  Medal  of 
Honor  for  acts  of  signal  courage ;  he  has  held  a  posi- 
tion of  high  respect  and  dignity  in  his  town  and  native 
state;  his  name  is  synonymous,  and  justly  so,  with 
those  very  qualities  which  you  so  impertinently  deny 
him." 

She  stood  before  the  man,  quivering  with  anger 
and  defiance.   He  extended  a  calm,  placatory  hand. 

"And  doubtless,"  he  observed,  with  cutting  com- 
posure, "if  all  the  facts  of  his  career  were  known  in  his 
home  town,  he  would  be  held  in  still  higher  esteem." 

She  fell  back  with  a  low  cry  of  mortification,  and 
sank  into  her  chair. 

"You  forget.  Miss  Raebum,"  he  went  on,  remorse- 
lessly, "that  so  far  as  your  present  auditor  is  con- 
cerned, only  one  little  episode  in  your  worthy  father's 
career  has  the  least  interest  or  significance.  His  nobil- 
ity of  soul,  his  piety,  his  patriotism,  I  have  no  reason 
to  doubt;  I  do  not  doubt  either  that  he  has  suffered 
many  painful  moments  of  regret  for  his  Httle  escapade 
with  poor  Judy  Creehng  — " 

"Regret !"  she  interrupted.   "It  has  killed  him." 

He  granted  the  point  with  a  slight  movement  of 
deference  that  seemed  to  mock  her  fever. 

329 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"But  how,  may  I  ask,  does  all  this  concern  me? 
Only  one  fact  concerns  me,  —  that,  thanks  to  him,  I 
was  ushered  into  this  fair  world  with  a  curse  upon  me. 
His  fond  paternal  solicitude,  of  which  you  make  so 
much,  never  did  me  one  jot  or  one  tittle  of  benefit ;  I 
was  alone,  unbefriended,  hated,  despised,  an  outcast 
from  my  birth.  Whatever  place  I  finally  succeeded  in 
winning  for  myself,  I  won  alone,  by  unceasing,  ruth- 
less struggle,  against  odds  insuperable.  My  first  con- 
scious thought  of  the  man  who  begot  me,  an  accident 
in  his  pleasures,  was  a  thought  of  hatred  and  con- 
tempt. Nothing  that  you  have  yet  told  me  leads  me 
in  any  respect  to  revise  that  thought." 

"But  I  have  not  finished  yet,"  cried  the  girl,  in  a 
voice  of  despairing  supplication.  "You  will  not  re- 
fuse to  hear  me  to  the  end." 

She  knew  that  nothing  she  had  still  to  say  might 
be  expected  to  move  him,  when  she  had  come  so  far, 
and  only  encountered  failure.  But  she  could  not  yet 
give  up. 

"I  have  still  to  tell  you,"  she  urged,  vehemently, 
"about  these  last  months.  Surely,  surely  you  cannot 
be  without  pity  when  I  tell  you  of  his  broken  spirit, 
of  his  agonies  in  the  night,  of  the  black  cloud  that  has 
settled  upon  him.  The  thought  that  his  son  is  yet 
alive,  and  that  the  curse  of  that  son's  hatred  is  fol- 
lowing him  to  the  grave  devours  him  unceasingly. 
Since  he  learned,  some  four  months  since,  that  your 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


sudden  disappearance,  three  years  ago,  was  not  the 
end,  he  has  not  known  a  moment  of  peace." 

*'I  fear  that  it  will  avail  you  but  little,"  said  Barry, 
with  a  caustic  smile,  *^to  bring  your  report  down  to 
date ;  but  at  least  it  will  then  have  the  merit  of  com- 
pleteness agreeable  to  a  scientific  mind  Hke  mine; 
and  you  will  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that 
you  have  done  your  best  to  soften  an  obdurate  and 
deeply  embittered  nature." 

"It  is  not  easy,"  began  Georgia,  with  a  sudden 
access  of  timidity  that  strangely  altered  her  voice, 
though  her  resolution  never  flinched  or  wavered,  "it 
is  not  easy  for  me  to  tell  everything ;  but  I  am  going 
to  be  absolutely  frank  with  you ;  and  if  you  think  it 
indelicate  of  me  to  be  so  personal,  I  only  hope  you 
will  appreciate  that  the  story  cannot  otherwise  be 
made  coherent." 

"Go  on,"  he  said,  once  more  commencing  his 
caged  movements  up  and  down  the  room. 

"It  was  the  evening  before  last  Thanksgiving,"  she 
said,  "and  a  young  man,  who  was  a  very  dear  friend 
of  mine,  was  making  us  a  brief  visit.  He  was  em- 
ployed in  an  architect's  office  in  New  York,  and  had 
lodgings  in  this  house." 

She  paused  a  moment  to  gather  courage.  The  man 
had  suddenly  ceased  his  pacing,  and  stood  stock- 
still,  watching  her.  She  knew  that  he  was  watching 
her:  she  felt  his  gaze;  but  a  weight  on  her  eyelids 

33^ 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


seemed  to  render  it  impossible  for  her  to  look  up  into 
his  face.  Her  neck  and  cheeks  mantled  with  self- 
consciousness.  The  room  was  so  still  that  she  heard 
for  the  first  time  the  breathing  of  her  auditor. 

"My  father,  who  has  been  an  invalid  for  a  consid- 
erable time,  was  very  much  entertained  by  —  by  our 
guest's  —  skill  at  making  little  impromptu  sketches 
of  the  various  occupants  of  the  house  where  he  lived. 
He  drew  several  —  the  landlady,  her  old  father  and 
mother,  and  a  young  woman  named  Jenny  —  I  do 
not  recall  who  she  was  —  and  finally  a  hasty  profile, 
with  which  he  was  not  satisfied,  of  his  fellow- lodger. 
The  resemblance  to  my  father's  features  struck  me  at 
once;  and  I  began,  out  of  aimless  curiosity,  to  ask 
questions  about  him.  The  answers  to  these  questions 
and  to  a  few  others,  put  by  my  father  with  what  ap- 
peared to  be  a  perfectly  casual  interest,  gave  him  the 
information  that  has  led  finally  to  my  errand.  But  at 
that  time  I  had  not  the  least  — " 

Her  Hstener  interrupted  her  with  a  gesture  of 
impatience. 

"No  matter  about  that,"  he  directed.  "I  want  you 
to  tell  me  something  further  of  this  friend  you  have 
mentioned.  You  say  he  was  your  friend.  Do  you 
mean  that  he  is  not,  now?" 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  him  for  the  first  time  since 
entering  upon  this  most  difficult  stage  of  her  recital. 
He  was  looking  at  her  with  consuming  attentiveness ; 

33'^ 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


the  cold,  contemptuous  expression  had  vanished  from 
his  features.  He  appeared  to  be  hanging  upon  her 
answer.  She  could  not  understand  it  at  all.  But  the 
instinct  that  tutors  suppliants  to  grasp  an  advantage 
too  slight  to  be  perceptible,  even,  to  others,  impelled 
her  to  indulge  his  curiosity,  at  whatever  cost  to  her- 
self. The  present  was  no  moment  for  reticence.  Her 
father's  soul  might  be  the  price.  If  her  stern  judge 
showed  any  least  hint  of  relenting,  she  had  no  right  to 
withhold  aught  from  him. 

*^No,"  she  answered,  candidly.  "He  is  not  my 
friend  now.  We  parted  the  next  day.  I  have  not  seen 
him  since,  nor  do  I  expect  to  see  him  again." 

**He  had  offended  you  in  some  way,  I  take  it," 
pursued  Barry,  mercilessly. 

Her  pride  rose  fiercely  in  revolt  against  the  inso- 
lence of  the  man's  curiosity ;  but  she  quelled  it,  an- 
swering him  again  with  unflinching  directness  and 
honesty. 

"He  had  not  been  true  to  me." 

"You  mean  that  he  had  become  entangled  with 
some  other  woman?" 

Tears  of  hot  indignation  rose  into  her  eyes.  She 
clutched  her  resolution  desperately. 

"Only  the  previous  week  he  had  —  been  with  her. 
Then  he  came  to  me." 

"Oh,  I  see.  He  told  you  nothing  of  it  all.  He 
made  a  secret  of  it.  You  found  out  by  some  accident." 

333       ' 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


She  grasped  the  arms  of  her  chair  to  brace  herself. 

"On  the  contrary,  he  told  me  everything." 

Looking  into  the  man's  face  through  tingling  eyes, 
she  saw  a  triumphant  smile  upon  his  proud  lips.  She 
could  bear  the  torture  no  longer.  Again  she  sprang 
to  her  feet,  aching  with  rage,  her  fists  unconsciously 
clenched. 

"What  right  have  you  to  look  at  me  like  that?" 
she  cried.  "Have  you  no  regard  for  a  woman's  feel- 
ings?  Does  it  delight  you  to  see  me  suffering?" 

The  man  stood  back  imperiously,  and  raised  his 
gaunt  hand  with  a  silencing  gesture. 

"Philip  confessed  everything  to  you,  and  begged 
you  to  forgive  him.  He  offered  every  reparation  in 
his  power ;  and  you  hardened  your  heart  against  him. 
You  come  to  me  suing  forgiveness  in  the  name  of  a 
man  who  has  hidden  his  guilt  until  the  grave  is  about 
to  close  over  his  head,  who  has  lived  a  lie  for  half  a 
century.  How  do  you  reconcile,  may  I  ask,  these  two 
courses  of  action  ?  Either  you  are  not  in  earnest  about 
your  father,  or  you  must  admit  to  having  worked  a 
grievous  wrong  to  the  man  who  loved  you,  who  —  as 
I  know  well,  though  he  has  never  mentioned  your 
name  to  me  —  loves  you  now,  better  than  his  life. 
What  is  this  forgiveness  you  talk  of?" 

He  stopped,  with  an  extended  hand  that  called  upon 
her  for  an  answer.  She  was  silent,  staring  at  him 
blindly,  her  jaw  slightly  dropped.  He  folded  his  arms 

334 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


once  more,  and  leaned  against  the  door,  watching  her 
inflexibly  out  of  denouncing  eyes. 

Seconds  passed  before  she  could  find  words;  and 
even  then  they  were  only  words  of  evasion. 

"I  do  not  understand,"  she  protested,  weakly, 
"why  you  should  so  concern  yourself  with  my  private 
affairs." 

She  realized  the  cowardice  of  her  feint;  but  she 
had  been  brought  to  bay.  She  knew  herself  without 
further  resource.  Her  response  was  nothing  more  than 
a  vague,  meaningless  contorsion  of  spirit,  like  the 
death-throe  of  some  beautiful  creature  of  the  deep, 
cast  by  the  tide  upon  a  rocky  shore,  vainly  struggling 
to  return  to  the  element  that  can  sustain  it.  Georgia 
made  this  final  blind  effort  to  recover  herself,  and 
failed.  Before  the  words  were  out  of  her  mouth, 
she  knew  that  she  had  put  herself  in  her  antago- 
nist's power.  But  she  was  totally  unprepared  for 
the  flaming  invective  which  he  poured  out  upon 
her. 

"Your  private  affairs!"  he  cried,  scornfully. 
"  Your  affairs !  And  pray  what  makes  them  yours  ? 
Are  they  not  equally  my  affairs,  concerning  as  they 
do  the  one  being  in  the  world  whom  I  love  ?  The  man 
you  have  cast  off  as  unworthy  your  exquisite,  dainty 
purity  and  blameless  virtue  is  the  man  who  has  gone 
down  after  my  soul  into  its  black  pit  of  despair  and 
darkness,  and  who,  at  the  price  of  his  heart's  blood, 

335 


ENCHANTED   GROUND 


has  borne  it  back  into  the  light  of  day.  Thanks  to  him, 
and  to  none  other,  I  am  rescued  from  a  curse  that  has 
been  a  thousand  times  worse  than  death. 

*^Who  warmed  me  with  his  own  body  when  the 
chill  of  the  pit  was  upon  me  ?  Who  welcomed  my 
hatred  and  my  curses  when  the  craft  of  the  fiend  had 
shut  up  my  reason  and  turned  me  into  a  starving 
beast?  Who  trampled  underfoot,  for  my  sake,  the 
most  seductive  and  tyrannical  desire  of  youth,  that  he 
might  stand  by  my  side  when  the  battle  was  desper- 
ate ?  The  man  whose  touch  brought  soilure  to  your 
fair  white  hands." 

The  girl  buried  her  face  in  terror  as  his  denuncia- 
tion was  heaped  upon  her.  She  felt  herself  being 
annihilated  with  the  thunderbolt.  A  paroxysm  of  fear 
shook  her.  She  did  not  raise  her  head,  when  he 
paused ;  but  she  heard  his  panting  breath  close  above 
her,  and  her  muscles  quivered  and  stiffened  like  those 
of  an  animal  who  sees  the  whip  raised  for  the  pun- 
ishing stroke. 

"Somewhere  in  the  Bible,"  resumed  Barry,  more 
quietly,  but  with  bitter  incisiveness,  —  "a  book  which 
I  assume  you  are  more  familiar  with  than  I, — there 
is  a  passage  about  judgment,  and  sheep  on  the  right 
hand,  and  goats  on  the  left.  Do  you,  by  any  chance, 
recall  the  strange  words  which  the  Eternal  Arbiter 
pronounces  to  the  sheep?" 

His  voice  assumed  a  prophetic  fervour,  so  like  her 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


father's  in  its  tones,  that  it  struck  her  with  an  uncanny 
dismay. 

*^  I  was  a  stranger,  and  ye  took  me  in ! ''  cried  Barry, 
solemnly.  *^ Naked,  and  ye  clothed  me;  I  was  sick, 
and  ye  visited  me ;  I  was  in  prison,  and  ye  came  unto 
me.  —  In  prison !  —  In  prison  I  —  Ah,  it  was  he,  it 
was  PhiHp,  who  had  the  key  to  my  prison,  and  who 
flung  wide  its  door.  So  long  as  I  possess  his  love,  I 
shall  be  free!" 

The  girl  could  no  longer  support  her  anguish.  The 
strength  went  out  of  her  quailing  limbs;  she  sank 
to  the  floor,  reaching  forth  her  hands,  vaguely, 
with  bUnd  supplication  toward  the  knees  of  her 
judge. 

"I  have  done  wrong,"  she  moaned.  "My  heart 
has  been  hardened  with  pride.    Oh,  —  have  pity!" 

There  were  tears  in  his  own  eyes,  as  he  lifted  her  to 
her  feet.  The  flame  of  anger  had  died  out  of  him  at 
the  sight  of  her  humiliation  —  proof  uncontrovertible 
of  the  nobility  and  truth  of  her  soul. 

"If  I  have  been  cruel,"  he  said,  in  an  altered  voice, 
"it  is  because  the  boy  is  very  dear  to  me,  and  because 
I  long  to  see  him  happy.  You  are  the  only  one  in  the 
world  who  can  make  him  happy.  For  the  salvation  of 
his  own  honour  and  integrity,  he  has  broken  the  net 
that  bound  him.  If  ever  a  man's  hands  were  clean, 
his  are.  His  soul  is  starving  and  crying  out  for  you." 

She  gazed  up  at  him  with  swimming,  doubtful  eyes. 
337 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


"Do  you  think  he  will  forgive  me?"  she  asked. 

"He  believes  that  he  has  nothing  to  forgive.  He 
has  never  had  one  thought  of  blame  for  you.  —  Will 
you  tell  your  father  that  he  has  my  pardon,  fully  and 
freely  offered,  and  that  he  owes  it  not  to  any  deserts 
of  his,  nor  to  the  unflinching  devotion  of  his  daughter, 
nor  to  anything  in  heaven  or  earth  except  my  boy?'* 

Georgia  reeled,  and  caught  herself  by  the  corner- 
post  of  the  bed.  Had  she  heard  aright  ?  Had  he  truly 
uttered  the  words  that,  but  a  few  minutes  before,  had 
seemed  as  far  and  unrecoverable  as  the  voices  of 
Creation  Day? 

"Did  you  give  me  a  message  for  my  father?''  she 
gasped.  "Did  you  say  you  would  forgive  him?'* 

The  man  smiled  at  her  with  a  lofty  illumination  of 
visage  that  she  would  never  forget  the  splendour  of. 

"I  did;  and  I  said  that  it  was  for  Philip's  sake." 

She  sat  down  weakly  on  the  bed,  and  buried  her 
face  on  her  arm,  against  the  footboard,  overcome  by 
uncontrollable  sobs.  The  man  watched  her  for  an 
instant  only ;  then  quietly  withdrew  from  the  apart- 
ment. 

He  went  up  two  flights  of  stairs,  and  knocked  at 
the  first  door.  A  voice  bade  him  enter. 

Philip  had  just  come  home  from  work,  and  was 
washing  his  face  at  the  washbowl. 

"Hello,  old  man?"  he  said,  blinkingly.  "How 
goes  it?" 

338 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


**Fine,"  replied  Barry. 

He  seated  himself  familiarly  on  the  table,  and 
calmly  took  out  a  stogie  from  an  inner  pocket.  As  he 
lighted  it,  he  said,  — 

"Do  you  want  to  do  something  for  a  person  who 
needs  your  help?" 

The  boy  was  vigorously  toweUing  his  face.  He 
looked  at  Barry  in  amused  consternation. 

"I  hope  it's  not  a  girl,"  he  said,  with  a  wry  smile. 

"I  won't  tell  you  who  it  is,"  said  Barry,  mysteri- 
ously. "All  I  can  tell  you  is  that  it's  a  case  that  re- 
quires your  help  —  that  no  one  can  help  but  you." 

"What  can  I  do?"  demanded  Philip. 

"You  can  put  on  your  collar  and  coat  as  fast  as 
you  damned  can ;  run  down  to  the  ground-floor ;  and 
knock  at  the  door  of  the  extension  chamber." 

"Go  on!"  asked  the  boy,  gasping.  "Are  you  in 
earnest?" 

"I  never  was  more  so,"  replied  the  man  with  an 
inscrutable  smile.  "There's  no  time  to  be  lost. 
Explanations  can  be  deferred  till  later." 

Philip  followed  directions  wonderingly.  He  could 
not  conceive  what  singular  vagary  had  seized  his 
neighbour.  The  extension  chamber!  But  that  was 
Victorine's  room.  Could  she  have  been  taken  ill? 
Was  she  in  some  trouble  ?  But  why  was  this  business 
for  him,  and  no  one  else? 

"Well,  here  goes,  old  man!"  he  announced.   "If 

339 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


it's  a  put-up  job,  why,  you  catch  it  later;  that's 
all." 

He  hastened  down  the  two  flights ;  he  stepped  shyly 
to  the  extension  door,  and  knocked.  A  faint  voice, 
that  somehow  awakened  vague  thrills  of  memory  in 
him,  told  him  to  enter.  He  turned  the  knob  timidly, 
opened  the  door,  went  in,  and  shut  it  softly  behind 
him. 


XXVIII 

Before  March  was  out,  the  Colonel  had  been 
gathered  to  his  fathers.  His  last  weeks  were  serene. 
Georgia  was  constantly  at  his  bedside.  Death  no 
longer  appeared  to  him  in  any  other  guise  than  that 
of  a  welcome  release  from  life's  weariness.  No  curse 
was  following  him  into  the  dim  land  beyond  the 
crossing.  His  daughter's  devoted  ministrations 
evoked  no  bitterness  or  humiliation  of  soul.  She  knew 
the  worst ;  and  still  she  loved  him.  For  the  first  time 
since  his  young  manhood  he  knew  the  comfort  and 
peace  of  an  affection  founded  on  truth. 

It  was  moreover  an  immense  joy  to  him  to  know 
of  the  relation  that  obtained  between  Philip  and 
the  girl.  At  his  explicit  direction,  she  had  given  him 
all  the  details  of  her  interview  with  Barry,  holding 
nothing  back  out  of  any  fallacious  desire  to  spare  him 
possible  mortification ;  and  he  knew  not  only  what  he 
owed  to  the  young  man,  but  also  the  reason  for  the 
debt.  For  the  first  time,  as  well,  he  learned  some- 
thing of  the  tragic  events  of  Thanksgiving  Day. 

^'I  sacrificed  to  my  pride,"  she  said,  *^the  richest 
privilege  of  my  life.  It  was  left  to  a  flighty  little 
chorus-girl  and  to  his  fellow-lodger  to  give  him  the 
help  he  needed." 

341, 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


They  had  many  talks  together  in  the  quiet  of  the 
Colonel's  chamber.  They  opened  to  one  another,  as 
had  never  before  been  possible,  their  inmost  hearts. 
Each  had  quaffed  to  the  last  drop  a  dark  cup  of  suffer- 
ing; to  each  had  been  accorded  a  new  and  exalting 
vision.  Reticence  was  unnatural,  full  communication 
imperative,  with  the  love  of  the  years  behind  and  the 
day  of  ultimate  separation  so  close  ahead.  The  sweet 
solemnity  of  those  weeks  sank  deeply  into  the  fabric 
of  the  girl's  being,  staining  it  with  a  richer,  more 
royal  hue  than  any  it  had  before  revealed. 

It  was  not  until  the  middle  of  April  —  more  than 
a  fortnight  after  Colonel  Raeburn's  death  —  that 
PhiHp  was  able  to  leave  town.  He  came  out  to  High- 
stone  in  the  early  afternoon,  and  they  took  a  long 
walk  together  through  familiar  woods. 

In  the  woods  of  mid-April,  Hfe  and  death,  dissolu- 
tion and  growth,  oblivion  and  promise,  find  a  mystic 
intermingle  and  fusion  that  tutor  the  susceptive 
spirit  to  new  faith.  The  earth  is  still  cold ;  remnants 
of  the  winter's  snow  linger  on  the  northward  side  of 
each  little  ledge  and  boulder ;  everywhere  is  the  sound 
of  drip  and  trickle  and  ooze.  The  buds  on  the  ash 
trees  and  the  beeches  are  swollen;  here  and  there  a 
swamp-maple  has  begun  to  veil  itself  in  faint  scarlet ; 
rusty  catkin  banners  are  half  unfurled  in  the  alder 
thickets ;  but  still  there  is  no  green,  no  open  declara- 
tion, no  panoply  of  the  oncoming  season.  The  naked 

342 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


branches  overhead  still  rattle  in  the  wind.  There  are 
no  songs  amongst  them.  Underneath,  the  dead  leaves 
lie  thick. 

Yet  it  is  just  here,  under  the  very  pressure  of  this 
mantle  of  death,  that  the  new  spring  is  teeming. 
Her  first  shy  children  have  been  brought  forth,  sweet 
pledges  of  affection,  fragrant  gages  of  the  multitu- 
dinous beauty  held  in  store.  What  an  inexpressible 
delight,  like  the  first  kiss  of  love  after  long  absence, 
to  discover,  under  the  decaying  leaves  of  the  previous 
year,  the  small,  pink,  waxen  clusters  of  the  arbutus, 
distilling  an  ambrosial  perfume. 

On  the  edge  of  a  piece  of  timber-land,  above  the 
second  pasture,  a  well-remembered  haunt  of  other 
springs,  they  had  found  it  that  afternoon,  dearest 
flower  of  all  to  the  children  of  New  England.  A  little 
deeper  within  the  covert  of  the  woods,  amid  rocky 
clefts,  they  had  surprised  the  pale  liverworts,  and  the 
tender,  spirit-white  blood-root,  ichor-nourished,  still 
clasped  in  its  natal  sheathing-leaf. 

It  was  a  day  of  lowering  clouds  and  rising  wind; 
and  before  supper  was  ended,  a  pelting  rain  had  set 
in.  As  they  sat  alone,  later,  before  the  open  fire  in  the 
library,  they  heard  the  storm  moan  and  whine  about 
the  lofty  eaves  of  the  house.  The  invalid  chair  had 
been  removed.  Georgia  was  in  black.  Her  face  had 
grown  pale  under  the  fatigues  of  the  long  winter ;  but 
it  wore  an  expression  of  serenity  which  was  new  to  it. 

343 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


She  sat  in  the  deep  arm-chair;  and  at  her  feet,  on  the 
hearth-rug,  sat  her  lover,  his  head  against  her  knees, 
one  of  her  hands  clasped  along  his  cheek,  and  pressed, 
at  times,  caressingly  to  his  lips. 

The  fire  flashed  fitfully  in  the  gusts  of  the  storm. 
Now  and  then  a  splash  of  rain  would  be  flung  against 
the  tall  window.  There  was  no  sound  of  Hfe  in  the 
great  house. 

Georgia  remembered  how,  as  they  had  made  their 
way  homeward,  that  Thanksgiving  afternoon,  it  had 
seemed  to  her  that  there  were  no  other  living  beings 
in  all  the  world  but  they  two.  Now,  once  again,  they 
were  alone  together.   But  how  different  the  solitude! 

An  unspeakable  gratefulness,  that  brought  the  mist 
to  her  eyes,  welled  up  in  her,  as  she  listened  to  the 
dismal  mutterings  of  the  storm,  that  she  had  Philip 
again.  Together!  —  Ah,  nothing  else  seemed  to 
matter  any  more. 

She  wondered  how  she  had  ever  been  able  to  carry 
her  burden  through  the  barren,  despairing  months 
without  him.  She  ran  the  fingers  of  her  uncaptured 
hand  gently  through  his  gleaming  hair.  If  he  were 
to  be  taken  from  her  now !  —  She  shuddered. 

The  man  at  her  feet  shuddered  responsively, — 
had  some  kindred  thought  perhaps  at  the  same  mo- 
ment fled  across  his  own  mind  ?  —  and  pressed  her 
slim  fingers  to  his  lips.  It  seemed  a  promise;  more 
potent  than  words,  to  assure  her. 

344 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


Ay,  let  the  storm  rage  as  it  would !  She  cared  not. 
With  her  hand  in  his,  what  was  there  to  affright? 
With  his  arms  to  comfort  and  cherish,  how  could  she 
be  dismayed? 

And  for  him?  —  Her  heart  was  confident.  He 
knew  that  she  needed  him.  Ah,  she  had  not  let  him 
guess  that  before.  Her  pride,  her  jealous  independ- 
ence had  blinded  her  own  spirit  and  dulled  her  per- 
ceptions. She  had  not  known  even  —  until  too  late  — 
that  she  needed  him.  But  now!  —  he  had  come  to 
her  when  she  had  been  crushed  and  fainting  and  for- 
spent with  anguish,  and  she  had  given  herself  to  his 
strength.  He  would  never  forget  that.  He  had  never 
been  disloyal  to  this  deepest  instinct  of  his  being,  an 
instinct  that  had  sufficed  to  tear  him  from  the  nets  of 
enchantment,  and  set  him  upon  his  feet,  even  when 
love  had  withdrawn  its  offices  of  aid. 

No  words  were  spoken  between  the  two.  But  the 
silence  was  full  of  voices.  The  storm  without,  the 
dark  night,  and  the  glowing,  faithful  fire  were  speaking. 
A  thousand  memories  —  memories  shared  by  both, 
memories  unshareable  —  were  speaking.  A  presence 
felt,  though  not  to  be  perceived  by  the  outward  eye, 
was  delivering  its  solemn  exhortation.  The  strong 
brown  hand  that  held  the  white  one  so  tenderly, 
reluctant  ever  to  release  it,  was  communicating  a 
world-old,  new-bom  mystery,  far  beyond  the  compass 
of  utterance. 

345 


ENCHANTED  GROUND 


When  so  many  voices  were  to  be  listened  to  by  the 
spirit,  some  still  understood  but  dimly,  others  enter- 
tained by  perceptions  love-tutored  to  their  message, 
words  of  mortal  speech  could  seem  but  a  desecra- 
tion of  the  timeless  silence. 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BEIiOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED   FOR   FAILURE  TO   RETURN 
THIS    BOOK  ON   THE  DATE   DUE.    THE   PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY    AND    TO     $1.00    ON    THE    SEVENTH     DAY 
OVERDUE. 

'^0    ZH  1J37 

T,n  51-PK«j-7  '37 

t^ 


Tb  J':^o/D 


348603 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


fC' ^N: 


t^t 


*<r^ -•■-■;>??- 


